Huzzah. My watch came back yesterday. A lovely boxed package was waiting in my mailbox. It was mostly crushed paper protecting the valuable contents.
Well, valuable to me.
The sweet ecstasy of having a watch again is mine. At least a competent watch that probably wasn’t made by immigrant grandmothers in Nigeria.
But wait. Something is wrong.

This isn’t my watch!
My watch had a scrape along the side. (The other driver never left his information and just peeled out of there.) And no fancy plastic cover to protect it. And these buttons feel a lot springier than what I’m used to.
Those people were too lazy to replace the watchband and just gave me a new watch.

If I had any sentimental attachment to the previous one (that climbed over two mountain passes and navigated one marathon with me) I might be upset.