The Mark Of Time

My son, who shares his parents' Northern European gene pool, will probably never suffer the mild indignity that his father has suffered for most of his adult life: A little pale stripe around his left wrist. The one that comes from wearing a watch and entering, however briefly, into a zone with solar radiation. I have made a practice, over the years, of taking my watch off whenever I go on vacation in the hope that when I return to work that trace reminder of my actual skin tone will be gone. Alas, what I tend to achieve is merely a slightly darker shade of pink than the rest of my forearm, and since the watch gets strapped back on that spot as soon as I return to the workforce, I'm left with a trace reminder of what was my moment in the sun.
My son owns a watch. It's a great big clunky thing with lots of extra dials and buttons and was purchased under the premise of getting him something "just like Dale Earnhardt wore." Even though his enthusiasm for race cars remains unabated, his interest in wearing a timepiece strapped to any part of his body is limited to novelty alone. I might say that my son's interest in time is limited to novelty alone, which would only be partially true, but for those instances when he is interested in when something will be over or when his parents will come and pick him up, he has a clock. It's on his phone.
He is part of a generation for whom the analog chronometer affixed to the arm is a thing of the past. If you want to know what time it is, pull that device from your pocket, punch a button or two, and find out. You can even call your friends to let them know what time it is. But you would probably just text them. My son could get on a plane with his watch, camera and video capture machine without having to stop and check a bag. His little gray tub would have more shoes in it than electronics. And his arm would be the same even tone from shoulder to fingertip. Now we just need to get a cell phone that dispenses sunscreen, and we've got the complete package.