Just admit it: you, like me, give more than two shits about what people think of your watch collection, and the reason is clear: our collections represent us. Every little detail that we’ve allowed past the velvet rope into our personal horological disco is out on the floor for others to judge. We really wouldn’t give two shits about that judgement if we didn’t understand that what’s being judged is not watches but our most intimate expression of our mostly solipsistic and, thus, often lonely subjectivity inner lives. You, dear reader of horological essays, like me who writes them, give two shits about how people judge you if not your watches, I’m sure of it.
