Bought a 12-slot watch box three years ago. “Room to grow,” I told myself.
Seven slots remain empty.
The empty slots taunt me. They whisper about the Cartier Tank I haven’t bought. The Grand Seiko I can’t justify. The chronograph I keep researching but never purchasing.
Maybe the empty slots are healthy. They represent restraint. Not every space needs filling.
Or maybe they’re a reminder that collecting is never “done.” There’s always another watch, another gap to fill, another justification waiting to be made.
I’ve started covering the empty slots with felt. Out of sight, out of mind.
It works until I open the box.
Five watches that get worn regularly. Seven empty promises.
That’s collecting, I guess.