My watch is a smart watch. It knows better than to ask me to charge it every second day and that’s its real genius.
My watch doesn’t tell me my heart rate or how many kilometres I’ve pedalled because it knows I don’t really want that stuff. It doesn’t track my activity at all. It knows my activities are none of its fucking business.
My watch knows better than to annoy with me texts or Facebook updates or any one of the hundred useless emails I get every day.
My watch is waterproof. It knows I want to go surfing and still tell the time. It’s clever like that.
My watch seems to be virtually indestructible. It understands that I want to sometimes forget where I put it and then find out later its been through the spin dry in the washing machine. It knows that I’ll take it apart myself, remove the broken second hand and expect it to keep working when I put it back together.
My watch knew, even before it met me, that I didn’t want to spend more than $100 on a watch.
My watch still knows the time even after 12 months without a charge.
My watch has a vestigial rotating bezel. That seems kind of pointless but I’m willing to believe my watch knows what it’s for.
My watch will never refuse to sync after months of having done so flawlessly. I will never need to look at my watch to know I have just lost two hours of my life making the stupid fucking thing work again.
My watch will never need a firmware upgrade. It’ll never need an upgrade period. Unless they change the dimensions of time.
My watch will never be part of the internet of things. And neither will yours. Or anyone else’. Because the internet of things doesn’t exist and is a concept more stupid than changing the dimensions of time. It’s just the internet okay. And the cloud? That’s the internet too. And yes mum, when you “open Google”? That’s the internet. (“I don’t have a browser. I just open Google.” Aaaaugh, kill me!)
My watch doesn’t vibrate to tell me about some person across town or around the other side of the globe, distracting me from the person in front of me I’m pretending to listen to.
My watch doesn’t pretend to have fake hands. It has real hands. Except the second hand of course. That’s been sacrificed to the washing machine.
My watch doesn’t turn off it’s fake face when I’m not looking at it. My watch is itself and knows itself well enough to just be itself at all times. It’s comfortable with who it is and what it does. My watch has achieved a certain level of enlightenment and contentment in life and has realized that telling the time is a noble and important function. It aspires to nothing more. My watch has a genius for just being itself.
My watch doesn’t have a calculator, run apps, play games or music. It knows I have a phone that already does that rubbish. And despite what my friends say I do quite often have my phone with me. Honestly. Jamie. Mick. Dad. I’m replying to your recent texts any day now.
Give credit where credit is due. My watch is a fucking genius.
