Over the past twenty years, I’ve learned that I love watches a little too much.
Not because I own too many.
Because I expected too much from them.
I made two mistakes. First, I convinced myself that the next watch would somehow complete me, that a particular dial, bezel, or movement would usher me into a higher state of existence. Second, I became addicted to flipping watches—not because I disliked them, but because every purchase, every sale, every unboxing delivered another hit of dopamine and another round of approval from fellow enthusiasts online.
The watches became secondary.
The chase became the hobby.
Fortunately, my collection has settled into something resembling adulthood. I own five Seiko divers and five G-Shocks. After falling under the spell of G-Shock’s atomic precision—watches so obsessively punctual they correct themselves while I sleep—I have found myself drifting back toward my mechanical Seikos with fresh appreciation. As I write this, I’m wearing my Seiko SBDC203 Coastline Diver on a Divecore Waffle strap, watching its blue wave dial catch the light with quiet confidence.
Oddly enough, I have nothing on my wish list.
That statement would have sounded impossible a few years ago.
I still admire watches. I linger over Citizen Attesas, Seiko Astrons, and Grand Seikos. My favorite watch ever made remains the Seiko SLA017, but I suspect our relationship will remain safely one-sided. I’ll admire it from afar on YouTube, where it can continue living its best life without emptying my wallet.
That realization has spilled into other corners of my life.
Once you discover that a watch cannot make you whole, you begin looking suspiciously at everything else trying to make the same promise.
A forty-thousand-dollar Honda.
A forty-thousand-dollar Toyota.
A four-thousand-dollar luxury mattress.
Consumer culture speaks with remarkable consistency.
“Buy me,” it whispers. “Your new life begins here.”
No, it doesn’t.
At best, your new life begins with a slightly nicer object.
The harder truth is that the improvements I actually want cannot be purchased.
I want to become healthier.
I want to lose twenty pounds.
I want more discipline.
I want to be fully present for my wife and daughters.
I want to become the kind of man whose character quietly exceeds his possessions.
No watch accomplishes that.
No car does.
No mattress does.
The real danger isn’t believing that buying something will make me happy.
That illusion is almost too obvious.
The greater danger is subtler.
It’s the research.
I can disappear for hours into consumer rabbit holes with the enthusiasm of an archaeologist uncovering a lost civilization. I compare specifications, memorize model numbers, watch endless YouTube reviews, read forum debates, and convince myself that this painstaking investigation is somehow productive.
It isn’t.
It’s beautifully disguised procrastination.
The internet has become a casino where information replaces slot machines. Every click offers the possibility that the next review, the next comparison, the next expert opinion will reveal the perfect purchase. Hours disappear without resistance.
The acquisition isn’t the addiction.
The pursuit is.
That’s the part that frightens me.
I have an obsessive personality. Obsession can be useful when it is harnessed toward writing, teaching, or improving my health. Left unattended, however, it happily attaches itself to titanium watch cases, mattress coil counts, automobile trim packages, fountain pens, headphones, or whatever shiny object wanders into view.
Obsession doesn’t particularly care about the subject.
It simply wants something to consume.
Going forward, I want to become more suspicious of that impulse.
Not because curiosity is bad.
Curiosity is wonderful.
But there is a profound difference between curiosity that enlarges your life and curiosity that distracts you from it.
I want to spend fewer afternoons researching products and more afternoons becoming the kind of man who no longer needs them to feel complete.
The irony is almost embarrassing.
For years I believed I was searching for the perfect watch.
What I was really searching for was the discipline to stop searching.
***
For my fellow watch addicts, here is the link to my book The Man Who Lost His Mind to Watches:
Cinemorphosis 
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