Losing Track of Time

This weekend, I had the fortune of meeting with a former coworker for lunch.

We went to one of my favorite haunts - a breakfast-and-lunch restaurant in a converted greenhouse, serving fresh salads and delicious baked desserts. I dug into an excellent greek salad with wheatberries and barley, the healthiest thing I've eaten in eons.

We laughed, we caught up on office politics, asked about the folks in each others' lives and heard all about her friend's new babies (twin girls - what a hoot!).

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the table beside us seemed to turn with alarming frequency. But our waitress gave us breathing space for a leisurely lunch, and dropped the check to be paid anytime, and kept our iced teas full.

We even picked at carrot cupcakes with real cream cheese frosting, the likes of which I've had nowhere else.

Suddenly, we realized they were ready to close, so we settled up, and sauntered outside. I glanced at my new watch (a birthday-gift purchase to replace my battered old one).

When I saw it said 2:30, I thought, "Hm... that was a nice, long, two-hour lunch."

We meandered up to the bookstore, I bought a gift for a friend. We continued our chatter a few more blocks to where she'd parked her car and said our goodbyes.

When I got back to my own car, I dug through my purse, and retrieved my phone to call Mr. Spandrel.

As I clicked it on, I noticed the time on the phone: 4:30. That's odd? Why is it so far off? Then, as I started up the car, I noticed the clock on the dash registered 4:30, too.

So while it hadn't stopped, my brand-new watch seemed to do something more nefarious: it lost track of time.