Okay... y’all....
Buckle da phuck up!
If you thought Günther and the crying dude were peak rep-wearing experiences, let me introduce you to what I’m now calling “The Incident at Aldi.” I swear on my great great great grand father's grave, THIS REALLY, TRULY HAPPENED!!!!!
So, a couple of days after the whole emotional-wrist-touching moment, i decide I need to do something normal—no coffde shop drama, no sobbing strangers. Just groceries. Harmless, right? Foolish of me.
I throw on my hoodie, some beat-up jeans, and strap on my ZF Black Bay Fifty-Eight. Casual, low-key. It’s a rep, obviously, but it’s my errands watch. No big flex, just vibes.
So I’m in the frozen aisle at Aldi, inspecting a very suspicious bag of shrimp (like, why does it say “may contain crab?”), when I hear it—a throat clear. Not just any throat clear. It’s the kind of throat clear that says, “I’m about to destroy your day.”
I turn. Standing there is a dude who looks like he was rejected from the GQ cover shoot for being too intense. Leather jacket, perfect stubble, and—of course—a Tudor Pelagos peeking from under his cuff like it’s on a red carpet.
He points directly at my wrist.
“You wear that diving?”
I blink. “The shrimp or the watch?”
He doesn’t laugh. Not even a pity smirk. “That Blsack Bay. You take it into the water?”
Now, I could lie and say I’m a deep-sea hobbyist who just happened to need discounted seafood, but something about this man tells me he could smell lies like sharks smell blood.
“Uh… nah,” I say. “Just wear it for the vibes.”
He steps closer.
“You know that’s not how real watch guys do it, right?”
What.
Is.
Happening.
Before I can even respond, he whips out a little pouch from his pocket, like some kind of horological Pokémon trainer, and pulls out a louupe. IN THE ALDI. NEXT TO THE SHRIMP, ffs.
“You mind?” he asks, already reaching for my wrist.
“Wait, are you about to loupe my rep in a grocery store?”
He ignores me. Loupe is now one inch from my wrist. I’m holding frozen crab-shrimp-mystery mix and contemplating if I can legally defend myself with it.
After a full two minutes of silence and intense monocle use, he lowers the loupe.
“This is… really good,” he says quietly.
And then—he looks around, leans in closer, and whispers like it’s a war secret:
“…ZF?”
I nod, stunned. “Yeah.”
He grins. “I knew it. I knew it. Those pearl alignments are too clean for GMF.”
I’m just staring at him, frozen shrimp sweating in my hand.
Then it gets worse.
This man, I kid you not, pulls out his phone, opens a folder labeled ‘Rep Grails’, and starts showing me photos of every replica he’s ever owned.
He’s got spreadsheets. Spreadsheets. Ratings, QC notes, seller contact info. He’s got a custom Google Doc titled “Lug Width Analysis – Personal Edition.” He’s not just in the rabbit hole—he owns real estate down there.
We stand there for 20 minutes, in the middle of Aldi, bonding over our mutual commitment to lying on our wrists. He tells me his wife thinks he’s cheating, but really he’s just sneaking to DHL drop points. I confess I once tried to use a microfiber cloth as a napkin at a dinner party.
We’re laughing like we’ve known each other for years, surrounded by confused shoppers and discount cheese.
As we finally part ways (aisle 8: gluten-free cereal), he stops and says, “You know, I judged you at first. But now... ? I respect the hustle. Stay strong, brother.”
And with that, he disappeared, like a horology-themed Batman.
Anyway. Moral of the story?
Reps may not be waterproof, but apparently, they’re social glue. So next time someone calls you out, just remember—you might walk into Aldi for shrimp, and leave with a spreadsheet-wielding best friend.
Rep life, baby.
Buckle da phuck up!
If you thought Günther and the crying dude were peak rep-wearing experiences, let me introduce you to what I’m now calling “The Incident at Aldi.” I swear on my great great great grand father's grave, THIS REALLY, TRULY HAPPENED!!!!!
So, a couple of days after the whole emotional-wrist-touching moment, i decide I need to do something normal—no coffde shop drama, no sobbing strangers. Just groceries. Harmless, right? Foolish of me.
I throw on my hoodie, some beat-up jeans, and strap on my ZF Black Bay Fifty-Eight. Casual, low-key. It’s a rep, obviously, but it’s my errands watch. No big flex, just vibes.
So I’m in the frozen aisle at Aldi, inspecting a very suspicious bag of shrimp (like, why does it say “may contain crab?”), when I hear it—a throat clear. Not just any throat clear. It’s the kind of throat clear that says, “I’m about to destroy your day.”
I turn. Standing there is a dude who looks like he was rejected from the GQ cover shoot for being too intense. Leather jacket, perfect stubble, and—of course—a Tudor Pelagos peeking from under his cuff like it’s on a red carpet.
He points directly at my wrist.
“You wear that diving?”
I blink. “The shrimp or the watch?”
He doesn’t laugh. Not even a pity smirk. “That Blsack Bay. You take it into the water?”
Now, I could lie and say I’m a deep-sea hobbyist who just happened to need discounted seafood, but something about this man tells me he could smell lies like sharks smell blood.
“Uh… nah,” I say. “Just wear it for the vibes.”
He steps closer.
“You know that’s not how real watch guys do it, right?”
What.
Is.
Happening.
Before I can even respond, he whips out a little pouch from his pocket, like some kind of horological Pokémon trainer, and pulls out a louupe. IN THE ALDI. NEXT TO THE SHRIMP, ffs.
“You mind?” he asks, already reaching for my wrist.
“Wait, are you about to loupe my rep in a grocery store?”
He ignores me. Loupe is now one inch from my wrist. I’m holding frozen crab-shrimp-mystery mix and contemplating if I can legally defend myself with it.
After a full two minutes of silence and intense monocle use, he lowers the loupe.
“This is… really good,” he says quietly.
And then—he looks around, leans in closer, and whispers like it’s a war secret:
“…ZF?”
I nod, stunned. “Yeah.”
He grins. “I knew it. I knew it. Those pearl alignments are too clean for GMF.”
I’m just staring at him, frozen shrimp sweating in my hand.
Then it gets worse.
This man, I kid you not, pulls out his phone, opens a folder labeled ‘Rep Grails’, and starts showing me photos of every replica he’s ever owned.
He’s got spreadsheets. Spreadsheets. Ratings, QC notes, seller contact info. He’s got a custom Google Doc titled “Lug Width Analysis – Personal Edition.” He’s not just in the rabbit hole—he owns real estate down there.
We stand there for 20 minutes, in the middle of Aldi, bonding over our mutual commitment to lying on our wrists. He tells me his wife thinks he’s cheating, but really he’s just sneaking to DHL drop points. I confess I once tried to use a microfiber cloth as a napkin at a dinner party.
We’re laughing like we’ve known each other for years, surrounded by confused shoppers and discount cheese.
As we finally part ways (aisle 8: gluten-free cereal), he stops and says, “You know, I judged you at first. But now... ? I respect the hustle. Stay strong, brother.”
And with that, he disappeared, like a horology-themed Batman.
Anyway. Moral of the story?
Reps may not be waterproof, but apparently, they’re social glue. So next time someone calls you out, just remember—you might walk into Aldi for shrimp, and leave with a spreadsheet-wielding best friend.
Rep life, baby.
