The Five Stages of Buying A Watch

Growing up, my dad used to tell me that there is a process for everything. Think about what you are doing before you do it. Think before you act. Think before you speak. Measure twice, cut once. All the familiar tropes of fatherly wisdom that stick with you long after you leave home.

And, in fairness, this idea has shaped much of my life. My day-to-day is basically a series of calculated decisions and carefully worded communications, full of phrases like “let’s circle back after the holidays” and “per my previous email.”

People create step-by-step guides for everything. From AA to the five stages of grief to every weight-loss program ever marketed. Which is why I have come up with the five stages of buying a watch and everything we go through in the process. And because I write for a company that sells watches, I suppose I should mention the obvious caveat now. At the end of these stages, the only real answer is to buy the watch, to take the leap.

Now that we have acknowledged that, I think we will be just fine.

Step 1: The Research.

The research that goes into buying a watch is perhaps the most important research you will ever do beyond buying an engagement ring, and I implore you to do just as much research on that front as well. The hard part about researching a watch is that you are at our mercy. Whose mercy? The media’s, to a degree. Unless you have a wildly close circle of watch-loving brethren, you are at the mercy of what the watch media produces in the way of editorial and video content scattered across the internet.

What you love may be clever marketing. What you hate may be nothing more than a lack of coverage.

Your rabbit hole usually starts with a Tim Mosso video or a Jack Forster review. Then comes the forum diving: Omega Forums, some old TimeZone articles, maybe even an FHH piece that covered the historical references at some point. You head to your RedBar Discord and ask the community, maybe even chime in on The 1916 Company app. You ask what people think of the sizing, the lug to lug, the bracelet. Does it cut into your wrist? Does the watch sit high? Are there any competitors at that price point?

You watch a few Teddy videos and maybe IDGuy jumps in at one point before you find yourself watching a Wei Koh interview with the watchmaker, that is of course a good friend. Tony Traina makes an appearance as you rummage through Substack newsletters buried in your email. Your knowledge of this watch, and of the others that fit the bill for size, design, use, utility, and whatever else your heart desires, grows into your own little Library of Alexandria. You head to ChatGPT to ask the robots what they think, to see if they confirm or deny your suspicion that this is a great watch.

You find out which caliber is used and stumble across a watchmaker’s video on YouTube where they spend 45 minutes disassembling the movement, because if you buy this you will want to know how to service it or at least talk about the escapement. Let us be honest, you will probably never actually service it yourself, but it does make you feel a bit powerful knowing that, in theory, you know how to take off the caseback.

You start to feel like the creator themselves, knowing the references that inspired the piece you are considering and the watch’s beat rate, even though you still struggle to remember whether that is the same as frequency or not and only vaguely understand that it impacts accuracy. The next time you are at the bar and compliment the guy’s Speedy next to you, you want to be able to tell him that your microrotor has better torque than his manually wound watch, because it sounds really cool.

Your research is done. Now we move to rationalization.

Step 2: Rationalization

You begin to craft a narrative where buying the watch is not only defensible, it is almost responsible. Rationalizing to the point where you start texting friends for validation. They, being forever enablers, always deliver.

This is where emotional impulse dresses itself up as logic and the storytelling begins. You look at your watchbox and see eight watches sitting there, more than enough for every day of the week, but something feels missing. Maybe it is a white dial. Maybe it is a pop of color. Maybe you do not have something that feels like a true GADA. Or maybe you are simply tired of that diver from the microbrand with the cool Instagram videos, only to realize later that you bought a mecaquartz for a thousand dollars and would prefer not to repeat that mistake.

You tell yourself that this new watch fills a gap in your rotation. You convince yourself that you have wanted this watch for years and that it is finally here on a website for thirty dollars less than it was in 2017. You begin to believe that a pulsometer scale is exactly what your collection needs because you were vaguely interested in medicine in high school and somehow that makes the watch meaningful. You rationalize the cost by thinking that for this level of finishing it must be a bargain. You see that the movement is in-house, whatever that actually means today, and the value proposition begins to scream at you. This fits a need. You have not bought anything in a while.

You add the watch to your cart. Your palms sweat, mostly because your significant other is finishing up a meeting in the other room and you know at any moment they might walk in and ask a question, forcing you to minimize your screen. She comes in. She leaves. That was a close one.

You know you are going to buy this, but it still feels like a big purchase. You click on Affirm, then immediately remember the advice you hear from everyone: if you cannot buy it outright, you should not buy it. You back out and check your credit card statement. There is some wiggle room. You tell yourself you can make this work. How expensive is daycare anyway? Your son will love this watch when you hand it down to him in fifty years. He will probably be able to sell it and buy a house by then.

You have now fully convinced yourself that this is a logical purchase. You step away from your computer, research and rationalization melding together into a warm feeling of comfort. Maybe you should sleep on it. Just one night before you pull the trigger.

Then the next day, your internal battle begins.

Step 3: Moral Philosophy

Suddenly the watch is not a purchase at all. It is a symbol of growth, of achievement, of who you hope to become. This is the phase where you convince yourself that not buying it might, in fact, be immoral.

You return to your computer and wipe last night’s tiredness from your eyes. You remember that down in your taskbar sits that Google Chrome window with the watch still in your cart, your address filled in, half the credit card number already typed. You refresh the page to make sure it is still there. Crisis averted. It is.

You did the research. You want the watch. You already rationalized that it is a need, not a want. But then something hits you deep down. Maybe this isn’t right. Maybe you should save. Maybe you should put that money toward better flights for the next family vacation. Nothing like having a six figure watch on your wrist while boarding basic economy. Your wife will not care, you tell yourself. She doesn’t fly first class anyway.

Then you become a philosopher. Your mind begins to rattle with Confucius, Buddhism, stoicism, a little dash of whatever motivational speaker was on your TikTok feed last week. The meaning of life is to live. You cannot take the money with you. Money is made up anyway and the points do not matter. Morally you need to justify this, even though yesterday you already justified it logically.

This is about living. This is about seizing the day. Carpe that diem. This is about protecting time, handing down time, honoring time, preserving time in a beautiful artistic way. This is what life is about, right. This is not even for you. It is for the future. A store of value. A time capsule. Why would you deny yourself this pleasure now while you can still enjoy it. If you wait until retirement you will not enjoy it the same way. Time is fleeting. Time is currency. Time is all we have. The moment is now. Seize it. Grab it. Suck the marrow from the day.

There is a pause. You sip your coffee. You minimize the screen because it is time for a meeting. After the meeting the feeling is still there. You work hard for this. Treat yourself. What is the point of working at all if you cannot buy cool things along the way.

The decision has been made again in your mind. You are going to buy the watch. You did the research. You know it is a need, not a want, and morally you can justify the purchase because it fits your personal philosophy. It is more than a watch. It is a marker in time, a symbol of this moment in your life.

Now you just need to figure out how to pay for it.

Step 4: Creative Accounting

Congratulations. The deal is now inevitable.

It feels like it has been a month since you added this watch to your cart. It has been five days. You refresh the page every morning to make sure it is still available. You have already worn the hats of researcher and monk; now it is time to put on your CFO hat.

You look back at your watch box and begin the audit. Maybe, you tell yourself, if you sell that watch you have not worn in three years and put the money toward this new one, the net cost is essentially forty percent off. But then you remember that you wore that old watch on your first date with your now wife. How could you possibly sell it? You move to the next candidate, the vintage time-only piece your uncle gave you. You cannot sell that one either. But surely there must be something you can do.

You wander into the kitchen for some orange juice and suddenly start recalculating your life. Maybe if you stop buying organic groceries. You did not grow up eating organic and you turned out fine. Why does your son need organic anyway? That alone could shave off a decent chunk of the price.

You look out the window at your car in the driveway. Do you even need a car? You work from home. Cars depreciate. Watches appreciate. You could sell the car. Make a bold financial stand.

You open Affirm and see that you are already pre-approved for double the amount of the watch. If Affirm believes you can afford this, then surely you can make it work.

You casually ask your wife if she really needs that trip to Italy next September. You do not finish the sentence because the glare she gives you immediately provides the answer.

You circle back to the watch from your first date. She will not notice it is gone, you tell yourself. Treat yourself baby. You reach out to your watch guy and they agree to buy it.

Game on. You click “Complete Purchase.”

Step 5: Serenity

The next two days feel like a lifetime. You refresh the FedEx tracker every hour, watching your package jump from Philadelphia to New York to a transit hub and finally toward Boston. It is getting closer. You hope the delivery driver is gentle. You hope someone remembered to mark the box as fragile. You imagine the worst. What if it arrives damaged. Months, maybe years, of research and longing balanced on the edge of a cliff while you twiddle your thumbs in a state somewhere between anticipation and mild existential crisis.

You salivate thinking about wrist rolls, wrist shots, what the boys will say, the compliments from strangers at the bar, the way the lume will glow against the basement walls after a summer barbecue. You imagine the weight, the click of the clasp, the ritual of strapping it on for the first time.

The doorbell rings. It is here.

Serenity now.

Wait. Move quickly. Your wife is coming down the hall. She cannot know. “It is a gift for you, honey,” you shout as you grab the box and sprint to your office. You will figure out an actual gift later. Priorities.

You take out your letter opener with the wooden handle, the one passed down from your grandfather when letters were still a thing. You slice open the first flap. Packing peanuts. You hate packing peanuts. You push through them anyway, like a kid opening a Nintendo 64 on Christmas morning in 1998.

Then you see it. The watch box. A handwritten note from your watch guy thanking you for your continued business and kind dollars. A warm rush comes over you. Retail therapy at its finest.

You open the box and there it is. You put the watch on your wrist. The lugs curve perfectly. You feel the ticking. You watch the second hand glide. “My precious,” you whisper to yourself, Gollum emerging from his cave.

Your wife calls from the other room and asks what is for dinner. “Cereal,” you respond, stepping out into the unknown, but this time with the best decision you have ever made.

That is, of course, after marrying your wife.