the rolex saga, part two

I wrote whoever was the president or CEO or whatever in Switzerland (I could probably Google the name up, but who cares?) and puffed off my LIFE magazine identity, my experience on Everest, and how pissed I was about the fact that my fancy watch had stopped there—when I really needed it to tell me when the cold cold night would be over.
   The result was a letter advising me to visit the Rolex repair department on the second floor of their Fifth Avenue store and speak to the manager. I dragged my feet. Unlike my ex-husband Douglas and my friend Barrett, I do not like stores. I do not like shopping. I do not like brand names.
  Meanwhile, Barrett says she had admired my watch all the way to Hawaii and decided she had to have one just like it. And Douglas's first wife, Jamie,  apparently liked it enough to buy one just like it, too. (And much, much later, my daughter, who at the time was only nine.)
   The watch started working again as soon as I was nearer sea level, so I didn't feel any urgency about fixing it. But Barrett came to town, and she urged me to go to Rolex. I don't remember this, but she claims that the guy took us out to lunch, and that she was wearing both her real Rolex and an identical fake one that she bought on Canal Street.
  All I remember is that my watch was sent to Switzerland for a couple of months to recuperate and that it cost me about $400. No loaner.