The Watch Slow-Down: Confessions of a Reformed Wrist Addict

At 63, the tectonic plates of my watch obsession finally shifted—and not with a polite tick-tock, but with the guttural crack of a midlife epiphany. For two decades, I was wrist-deep in the horological trenches, swapping bracelets for straps at 61 like it was some major spiritual awakening. Little did I know, that change was a mere amuse-bouche before the main course: total psychological detachment from the game. The forums? The drop chatter? The breathless anticipation of this week’s 44mm status symbol? I’ve danced that jittery dopamine jig too many times. The thrill is gone—and thank God for that.

There’s also the inconvenient matter of time, that precious commodity I once used to justify swapping three watches before lunch. These days, I’m not auditioning for a Bond reboot, nor am I pacing the boardroom like a man with a GMT and something to prove. I don’t need a “hero piece” to validate my existence. I’m not branding myself in public spaces anymore—I’m inhabiting a quieter, more deliberate orbit, where the only eyes on my wrist are my own. Six or seven watches now feel like a well-edited playlist. The days of horological hoarding are over.

I’ve thought about unpacking this transition on my YouTube channel, but the idea of filming another selfie in bad lighting feels absurd. I don’t need to see myself on screen clutching another dive watch like it’s the Holy Grail. Mortality, it turns out, is a hell of a lens to look through—and it’s clarified what actually matters. I don’t crave applause from collectors. I crave integrity, focus, sweat, creativity. I’m dropping weight, playing piano, swinging kettlebells, and gearing up to teach my next writing class—one populated entirely by college football players who will be writing about the ethics and technology of brain trauma in their own sport. That’s not just a syllabus. That’s a mission.

Watches? I still love them. Deeply. But they no longer squat in the center of my brain, stirring up late-night eBay searches and existential unrest. That relationship has matured—or maybe just mellowed. The romance isn’t over, but the mania is. And in its place is something better: clarity, purpose, and a little more room on the wrist for life itself.