Strapped for Time

Early Sunday Morning, I wake up. After shaking the last remnants of sleep and rubbing out the eye gook from my naina's, I raise my arm, twisting it to turn the watch face towards me and discover to my ultimate shock and extreme panic that it is not there. Instead, a strip of white skin greets me, to remind me exactly how fair I am. For the next minute, panic ensues. The first five seconds, I think I'm in some sort of nightmare, where time itself has been taken from me. This done with, I get to my senses, and search the bed in worried haste for my missing timepiece. A few seconds later, I happen upon it, and tragedy of tragedies, the strap has broken in two at night. Two scenarios are made clear to me. Either my pencil thin wrist has finally decided to keep of with the rest of my weight gain, and expand a bit thus putting undue pressure on my Casio, or my Subconcious is indulging in unseemly and violent nighttime activities. The scary thing is that both these scenarios are equally likely, and I'm starting to lean towards the latter.

See, my watch is an extension of me, it's a part of me. I'm compulsive about the time and check it at least a hundred times in a day. A lot of my activities are taken down to the last second, and I'm paranoid about punctuality. If my watch is taken away from me, I feel very very naked, it's an integral part of my body and I NEVER take it off. This of course means that it has to be a hardy outfit, and nothing fancy, so I go for a Casio Digital with Plastic Straps, waterproof, shockproof, dustproof and with no large pokey buttons that will gouge my wrist while I sleep. And I need it back. And I need it back fast. Me going nuts here.