A terrible experience at the AD

I had finally booked an appointment with my AD. This wasn’t just any errand, it felt like I was heading into a first date crossed with a job interview and a royal audience. Nerves? Absolutely. I was sweating through layers I didn’t even know I was wearing. The last time I felt this anxious, I was about to meet my wife’s father, a man who shook my hand like he was testing my bone density and offered me a drink before judging whether I was worthy of his daughter.

As I made my way there, I mentally rehearsed my “persona.” I needed to walk the tightrope: cool, confident, but not cocky. I asked myself, “What do I say I do for a living?”

Doctor? Bit cliché, and it might come off as smug. Surgeon? Now I’m just flexing. Military? Might get Googled, and before I know it I’m on some Rolex watchlist titled ‘Stolen Valor & Serial Flippers’.

I settled on mysterious-but-harmless. You know, the kind of guy who could be a hedge fund manager… or just really good at crypto.

To seal the impression, I stopped and picked up a nice bottle of Barolo, solid choice. Not flashy enough to scream bribe, but elegant enough to say, “I know what a tannin is.” Perfect.

I arrived. The boutique was like a temple: soft lighting, whispers, and shelves of unobtainable beauty. I was greeted politely. The AD himself seemed friendly, warm even. My anxiety started to settle.

Then, I said it.

“Any chance I could be added to the waitlist… for a ceramic Daytona?”

Silence.

He blinked.

Tilted his head.

And then burst out laughing like I’d just asked if Rolex accepted Klarna.

“No, seriously,” I said, clinging to the shred of hope like a man clinging to a sinking raft.

Still laughing, he said, “You’re kidding, right?”

I wasn’t. But he kept laughing. At one point, I swear he snorted. I think he even whispered “bless your heart” under his breath.

Trying to recover, I pivoted: “Would it be… inappropriate to ask if we could step into the back room?”

He gave me a look that said “This ought to be good,” and motioned for me to follow.

What happened next? Honestly, it’s a blur. Like a dream sequence in a Christopher Nolan film. I vaguely remember velvet chairs, hushed tones, and him whispering things like “unicorn allocation” and “you didn’t hear this from me.”

Then, suddenly, I woke up.

I turned to my left and there they were, gleaming like horological royalty: a ceramic Daytona, a GMT-Master II, and a Datejust. All mine. No waitlist. No begging. No shady grey market back-alley deals.

I had them. Instantly. Just like that.

I clutched the Barolo like a newborn and staggered out of the boutique with the weight of three watches and a thousand dreams on my wrist.

The nightmare was over.

Or maybe… just maybe… I was still asleep.