The Beautiful Unwearable

Do you own a Beautiful Unwearable? If so, you already know the cruel paradox: the watch that steals your breath every time you look at it, yet somehow never makes it onto your wrist.

Picture this: you’re hypnotized by a $2,000 Seiko Astron—a stunner whose build quality punches well above its weight class, easily rivaling watches priced four digits higher. Every gleam of that GPS-synced, zirconia ceramic bezel sends a little burst of dopamine through your bloodstream. So you do what any horological romantic would do: you pull the trigger. A week later, it’s in your hands, fresh from Japan, glinting like a Bond villain’s cufflink.

And then… nothing.

You stare at it. You admire it. You photograph it from five angles under different lighting conditions. But when it’s time to choose a watch to wear—on a walk, to the store, or even to teach class—it’s always your rugged dive watch that gets the call. The Astron? It’s too dressy, too refined, too… aspirational. Like buying a tuxedo when your calendar is a wasteland of Costco runs and Zoom meetings.

So it sits. Day after day. In its cushioned little coffin, gorgeous and neglected, whispering, “You’re not worthy of me.” Unlike wall art, it can’t be displayed; unlike a tool watch, it doesn’t beg to be worn. It becomes horological purgatory—a $2,000 museum piece trapped in a drawer.

Personally? I’ve never bought an Astron. Why? Because I’ve already mentally lived this scenario. I’ve played out the whole Shakespearean arc in my head: love at first sight, the impulsive purchase, the honeymoon glow… followed by guilt, alienation, and silent shame. I don’t need a Beautiful Unwearable in my collection to know it would haunt me like a luxury ghost.