Absolutes and the Ruin of Watch Collecting

It’s often said that comparison is the mother of misery. No matter how high you climb in any pursuit, there’s always someone perched above you, dangling their boots over the edge. The distance between you and them can feel vast—so vast it erases the climb you already made. In watch collecting, this happens fast. You finally land your grail: a Seiko GMT diver that cost real money, money that made you flinch. You admire it. You feel complete. Then a friend casually flashes a five-thousand-dollar Grand Seiko and—poof—your triumph collapses. You don’t feel lucky. You feel inadequate.

If comparison is the mother of misery, then she has a meddlesome sister. Call her Aunt Absolute. Aunt Absolute is just as ruinous. She whispers that contentment requires perfection. Not just a great watch, but the right watch. Not just a collection, but the collection. The correct rotation. The correct strap. The correct bracelet. She promises peace once everything clicks into place forever.

This hunger for absolutes usually rides shotgun with an OCD streak in the hobby. The flaw in that mindset is simple: the hobby refuses to stay still. Tastes change. Knowledge deepens. Bodies age. Jobs shift. Moods fluctuate. Absolutes hate variables, and watch collecting is nothing but variables. To the absolutist, change feels like threat, and threat breeds anxiety. In its ugliest form, that anxiety convinces you your collection is one wrong move away from collapse. Sell a watch. Swap a strap. Wear a bracelet again. The whole thing topples. This is Jenga Anxiety—the chronic fear that a single adjustment will destabilize not just your watches, but the identity you’ve built around them. Adaptability feels like fragility. Experimentation feels like self-destruction.

I lived under Aunt Absolute’s roof for about two years. I refused bracelets entirely. Every watch sat on Divecore FKM straps. The system was clean. The rules were rigid. I was happy—until the FKM “forever chemical” scare cracked the foundation. I reassessed. I adjusted. Now four watches live on straps and four on bracelets. The collection breathes. I have options. And yes, I forgot how good a bracelet can feel until I let myself enjoy one again.

That experiment proved something important. I didn’t need absolutes to enjoy the hobby. I didn’t need perfection. Flexibility wasn’t failure—it was freedom. The watches didn’t lose meaning when the rules softened. They gained it.

Will I stay flexible, or will I drift back toward absolutism? History suggests vigilance is required. But if I feel Aunt Absolute tugging at my sleeve again, I’ll remind myself of a simple truth: absolutism is the aunt of misery.