There was a time when I wore a Mickey Mouse watch to work everyday. Granted, it might have been hidden under the cuff of a dress shirt, but I had it on. Why? Blame it on the most hateful boss I ever had. (I won’t give him the satisfaction of naming names.)
This guy used the Mouse’s name in vain every time he wasn’t happy with something—and that was mighty often. “This article on page three is Mickey Mouse,” he would growl. He would storm around our offices and if he saw something out of place or not to his liking he would shot, “This ain’t no Mickey Mouse operation!” (Yeah, great, a publisher with poor grammatical skills judging the editorial copy of a magazine.)
Well, to uphold Mickey’s good name—as well as to amuse the downtrodden troops I was in charge of—I purchased a MM watch while in Orlando attending a trade show. I wore it proudly, if not somewhat secretly, every day.
The inside joke among my staff became every time they heard Mickey’s name uttered, everyone would respond like Pavlov’s Dog by tapping their left wrists with the first two fingers on their right hands. It became comical and the more pounded upon we were, the more it became our emotional savior.
Isn’t that the role Mickey should play? Even though that watch died more than 15 years ago, I have continued to buy replacements to maintain the memory. Every now and then, I take that watch out of my bedside drawer, put it on and say perhaps the world would be a better place if just a few more things were "Mickey Mouse."
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