Seiko SARB017

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You’re walking down the road when you catch a glimpse of her.

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Resplendent in verdant green, gilded with bold strokes of gold, as if she couldn’t care less how brash she appears. Maybe it’s that chutzpah that makes her stand out in a sea of self-proclaimed ‘serious and classy’ types. Perhaps it’s the wild dressed up as if ready for the opera.

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You’ve already played out the first date in your head.

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A dimly lit bar. A cocktail stirred just right. Soft jazz rises like smoke in the background. You’re trading stories, stealing glances, and everything feels like it could be the beginning of something. One of those nights that folds upon itself, origami-like, into a mountain-shaped memory.

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You lie on the resume. Of course, I’ve climbed the mountains. Like Issa’s snail — slowly, stubbornly, step by gentle step. You tell her the story. You tell yourself the story.

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But when you finally meet. When you feel her weight on your wrist and the moment turns real, something doesn’t land. Not in a catastrophic, melodramatic way. There’s no sharp disappointment, no glaring flaw. Everything that should matter is there. The proportions. The pedigree. Even the envious side glances from strangers.

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You’re supposed to be in love.

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But the melody doesn’t rise. It doesn’t hum in your bones. Somewhere between the wrist and the heart, the signal breaks. 

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That, in essence, has been my story with the Seiko Alpinist. Not once. Not twice. But three times.

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*****

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Seiko SPB089 - Hodinkee Limited Edition

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I tried. Truly. First with the green and gold - the one everyone raved about. Then, with the moody blue, dressed up as a limited edition. And finally, with the black dial, restrained, mature, safe. 

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Each time, I convinced myself that this was the one that would sing. That the notes had just been out of tune before. That the next version would be better timed, better suited. But it wasn’t. Each encounter ended with the same quiet sigh. No drama, no heartbreak. Just the ache of an almost. The kind that teaches you something. But only after the third time.

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****

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Each time we parted ways, I told myself I was done. That I’d moved on, wiser and more self-aware. But like any almost-relationship, the Alpinist lingered. Not as regret, but as a question: What was I really looking for?

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Maybe that’s the thing about collecting or even living. We think we’re chasing beauty, or a story, or a legacy. But often, we just want resonance. That subtle click between you and the thing you’ve chosen to bring close.

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Seiko SPB117

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Because collecting, at its core, isn’t about ownership. It’s about recognition. About finding watches that mirror something in you, or show you who you are not. And like all mirrors, it can get messy.

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In a world obsessed with perfect fits, there’s something oddly comforting about the almosts. They don’t demand permanence. They don’t become anchors. They pass through, but not without leaving fingerprints.

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The Alpinist never found a permanent place in my watch box. But it carved out a small space in my story. A space shaped like yearning. Or perhaps learning.

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It reminded me that you can admire something deeply and still know it isn’t meant for you. That aesthetics don’t always translate into affection. 

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****

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Alpinist Collection by @thekaranmadan 

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I sold the last Alpinist a few weeks ago. No grand farewell, no second thoughts. Just a quiet nod, like two people parting ways after one too many polite coffees. No harm done. No bitterness. Just the soft acceptance that some things, some people, some watches are meant to pass through, not stay.

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Still, I think of her sometimes. Of the green and gold, of the imagined bar, of the slow jazz, and the mountains that we didn’t climb together. But also, of how close we came.

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Maybe that’s not a failure, but the point.

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Because what is collecting, if not a kind of courtship?

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A slow, imperfect narrowing of the field. A process of elimination and surprise. You don’t always find the one. Sometimes you just find a better understanding of yourself.

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Like watches, not all relationships need to last to leave a mark. Some remind you what it feels like to hope. To try and listen to the song. Even when it never plays.

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