Clearly, I am not wearing enough watches.

Or so say many hundreds of daily e-mail messages. Genuwine and authentik Rolexes and Cartiers, available at mall aisle prices. Perfect for one-upsmanship occasions like reunions, sales meetings, and church confessionals.

Subscriptions to Wired and The New Yorker only accentuate my lack of refined chronometry. Andrew recently bemoaned the advertising-to-editorial ratio of Wired, but it pales when compared to the Cosmo-esque glossies published during the Go-Go-IPO excesses of the late 90s.

Wired also takes pain to point out my inadequate vehicle, shoes, booze, hotel choice, and, were I to own one, cell phone.

The New Yorker is much more eclectic in defining my wants. Sprinkled amongst the solicitations for TAG Heuer, Breitling, Rolex, Audemars Piguet, Victorinox, Patek Philippe, and — lastly — Omega, are offerings of excessively broad shoes, lurid jewelry, seniors’ storage, clipper cruises, and, in every single issue, $14 European berets.

True, a $14 European beret would attract attention away from my oh-so naked wrist. And the two-foot-diameter Ikea Bravur adorning my living room means that I’m never tardy. But I still can’t help feeling that I’m missing out on life’s natural Swiss-certified jewelled movements.