Sometimes My Inner Adult Has to Clean Up the Mess of My Addictive Ways

I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve finished my work, promised myself a little harmless “watch browsing” as a reward, and ended up setting fire to my own peace of mind. It starts innocently enough—just a few clicks, some glossy macro shots, a limited edition here, a patina there. Eye candy, I tell myself. A visual snack.

Then, inevitably, the spiral begins.

Suddenly I’m convincing myself that I need another diver, another field watch, another reinterpretation of a watch I already own in three colorways. The whole endeavor, pitched as relaxation, mutates into a dopamine landmine. Each spec sheet whispers betrayal into my ear. That sapphire crystal isn’t in your current rotation. That Miyota movement ticks more accurately than your precious Seiko. Your collection, once a source of joy, now feels like a garage sale of missed opportunities.

At this point, the adult version of me has to crawl out of whatever psychic broom closet I locked him in. He dusts himself off, adjusts his belt, and mutters: “Alright, junior. You’ve ogled enough. Shut the laptop. Go to your watch box, pull out the piece you’ve ignored for a week, strap it on, and sit with it. Feel the weight. Admire the bezel. Remind yourself why you bought it. And for God’s sake, stop self-inflicting existential crisis over a titanium caseback.”

Because life’s too short to be haunted by the ghost of watches not bought.