What an EMT Exam, a Kenneth Cole, and a Missing Seconds Hand Taught Me About Life

Time is supposed to be objective. Precise. Measurable.

But anyone who’s worn a watch long enough knows that it rarely stays that way. Over time—pun intended—watches start picking up more than scratches. They pick up stories. And those stories, unlike quartz movements, are anything but predictable.

This isn’t a technical deep-dive. You won’t find spec sheets or movement debates here. This is about the other kind of value a watch holds—the emotional kind. The kind you can’t appraise, but definitely can’t forget.

Let me start with mine, when a fashion watch almost derailed my career…

In the world of watch collecting, fashion watches often get side-eyed. Collectors dismiss them for using outsourced movements, for focusing more on branding than build quality, for lacking that elusive horological “soul.” And yes—there’s truth to some of that critique.

But sometimes I think the watch community forgets: most of us didn’t start with sapphire crystals and Swiss pedigrees. We started with whatever was accessible, affordable, or simply caught our eye at the mall.

My first “real” watch was one of those so-called fashion watches: the Kenneth Cole KC1441. And while it may never show up in a Hodinkee write-up or fetch vintage premiums at auction, it is the watch that taught me one of the most important lessons of my life.

It was 2010. I was preparing to sit for my EMT state licensing exam. One crucial part of the exam involves assessing a patient’s vitals—heart rate, breathing, responsiveness. And for that, you need a watch. Not your phone. Not your best guess. A proper, analog watch. No exceptions.

We were told in no uncertain terms: “If you forget your watch, you automatically fail.”

Naturally, I considered this an inconvenience. (This was before I learned that in an actual emergency, you don’t get time to open your phone, adjust the brightness, open the stopwatch app, and set it down neatly before someone stops breathing.)

So, after some internal grumbling, I went to the mall and picked out a watch. I wasn’t a watch enthusiast back then. I had no idea what a movement was. I based my decision purely on aesthetics and what I vaguely assumed was a “good” brand. Enter the Kenneth Cole.

Exam day rolled around. I strutted in with the confidence of a man who knew his ABCs: Airway, Breathing, Circulation. I breezed through the written section and got called in for the practical.

The room was set up like a full-on mock ambulance—very realistic, very dramatic. I began my patient assessment, calm and collected… until I looked down at my wrist and realized something horrifying:

My watch didn’t have a seconds hand.

That’s right. The one job this thing had—help me count vitals—and it couldn’t even do that.

Cue panic. The examiner noticed something was off and asked what the problem was. I mumbled. I pointed. I may have made some noises only dolphins could hear. He stared at me, stunned. Then he walked out, returned with another examiner, and they both looked at me the way one looks at a student who has, say, brought a fork to a chemistry exam.

Finally, after a very awkward pause, they gave me five minutes—five minutes—to find another watch, or I’d fail.

I wasn’t allowed back in the waiting room. I ran outside, breathless, and spotted a friend of a friend. I frantically explained, and in a moment of trust (or perhaps fear for my mental state), he handed me his Rado.

I sprinted back in, strapped it on, and somehow passed the exam.

The watch I wore? Irrelevant.
The lesson I learned? Timeless.

That Kenneth Cole still sits in my drawer. I’ve worn far “better” watches since then. Mechanical marvels, iconic designs, real collectors’ pieces. But that one? That’s the watch that taught me preparedness, humility, and how overconfidence can make you overlook the literal second hand.

And here’s the kicker: To this day, almost fifteen years later, at that same institution, EMT trainees are explicitly warned: “Make sure your watch has a seconds hand. Don’t be like that chucklehead from back when.”

That guy?
Yeah, hi. That was me.

There’s a certain irony in how the most “disposable” watches can become the most meaningful. Sure, my Kenneth Cole was probably built in a factory cranking out mall watches by the hour. But to me, it became more than a tool—it became a talisman.

It marked the beginning of my journey—not just as a healthcare professional, but eventually as someone who’d fall in love with horology. It taught me that a watch doesn’t have to be expensive, mechanical, or heritage-rich to matter. Sometimes it just has to show up when you need it most (even if it forgot the seconds hand).

Some watches are made to be admired. Others are made to be worn. And some—just a few—are made to be remembered.

They remind us of who we were, what we didn’t know, and how far we’ve come.

We talk a lot in the watch world about heritage, about mechanical excellence, about provenance and patina. But there’s another kind of watch value that doesn’t get cataloged or resold: the value of a story.

So the next time someone asks, “What kind of watch is that?”
Don’t just name the brand. Tell them the story.
Especially if it involves sprinting across a parking lot and borrowing a stranger’s Rado under exam-day duress.

Because some watches don’t just tell time.

They tell on us.

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💬 Every Watch Has a Story—And We’re Just Getting Started.
From EMT mishaps to heirloom memories, watches aren’t just about time—they’re about life.
If you enjoyed this story, there’s more where that came from.

👉 Explore reflections, reviews, and real wristwatch moments at bowearswatches.com.
Because around here, we don’t just collect watches. We collect the stories that come with them.