From: Phil
To: The Host
Date: Dec. 30th, 2008
Subject: Invitations for Pre-New-Year’s dinner

Did you forget to invite some people?

[List of Names]

- p

From: The Host
To: Phil
Date: Dec. 30th, 2008
Subject: Re: Invitations for Pre-New-Year’s dinner

I don’t know how to reply to this email without sounding weird… but I’ve invited those who we usually hang out with. I probably haven’t spoken to [those people] in years…

[Signed, The Host]

From: Phil
To: The Host
Date: Dec. 30th, 2008
Subject: Re: Re: Invitations for Pre-New-Year’s dinner

Sorry. I guess I’m a bit out of the loop. As far as I’m concerned, we’re all still back in high school.

- p

Place: Pre-New-Year’s-Eve dinner. Post-party cleanup

Date: Dec. 30th , 2008

“Well, who is she engaged to?,” I asked none too gently, gritting my teeth as I scrubbed furiously at a piece of baked lasagana on glass, “Who is this guy, anyways?”

“Why is it such a big deal for you that she’s getting married?”

“Because she’s one of us,” I said, clearly emphasizing the “us” part to remind everybody there was indeed a them (that we never spoke about).

He clearly didn’t get my point. “So?”

Someone next to me chimed in. “Because, it means things are changing.”

Place: AC 888, 20,000 feet over the Atlantic.

Date: Dec. 31th , 2008

Time: Midnight

There was a gentle ‘ding’ from above and all the headrest-movie-screens blacked out simultaneously, plunging the cabin into darkness.

Then the intercom crackled to life.

“Welcome to 2009,” said the captain.

Quiz time.

If you’re wondering what it’s like to be flying over the Atlantic when the New Year strikes, the answer is d) the sound of silence.

Oh. And maybe the gentle tappity-tap of a glowing Macbook as this author tries to write out his final thoughts of 2008.

But I’m getting to that.

When you’re a student, you live your life according to the the four-year calendar: Grades 1-4, Grades 5-8, Grades 9-12, and the four undergraduate years of college.

Of course, each of these quartic-year groups are further separated into academic years; each year is separated into academic terms and exams; each term is separated into academic weeks; and each academic week is dictated by the individual requirements of each separate class: weekly or bi-weekly assignments, tests, group projects, honours projects, and so on and so forth.

There is an orderly air to everything.

This doesn’t mean life is easy.

High school (to a high school student) is no easier than college (to a college student). People often make the mistake of looking back and whining about how good and easy life was, but this is simply a bias of perspective. It was never easy.

It just seems that way, now. After all, you’re older and wizened.

Teenage angst and acne, for example, seems so insignificant compared to the problems of a single working parent, trying frantically to get through college — but then again, try explaining that one to the average high school student.

That’s what I mean by a bias of perspective.

For my friends, however, 2008 marks the end of this quartic-year cycle.

2004 was the year of university applications, high school prom, and eventually, high school graduation. Four years later, many members of this class are either finished with their last vestige of education, or are are the verge of finishing.

Life, for these people, will no longer be measured in groups of four years or in academic terms, separated by excruciating and sleepless exam periods. Life is just as regular — they still wake up and head to work every morning; they will all have deadlines to deal with and forms to fill; they will all have bosses and supervisors.

In short, life doesn’t really become any less busy. Just different. More flexible and requiring full independence.

But most of all, there are changes in social structure.

Friendship — within the school system — is easy. You and your fellow comrades are bound in circumstance, whether that means being locker neighbours, sitting besides each other in class, or as residences in the same building. But at the end of each quartic-year cycle, these friendships fragment.

Our group of friends is like the swanky, restricted club in town. We’ve dropped all the not-so-regular customers and now, the only way you get in is by being someone’s plus-one. Or perhaps by being really good friends with the host.

And this scares me.

I never got a last quartic-year cycle.

‘04-’06 was duo-year (undergrad), ‘06-’07 was a mono-year (masters), and ‘07-’10 will be the final, triple-year piece of the puzzle. Except two of those don’t count, right? Because by the end of undergrad, I was supposed to be finished.

But it never felt finished.

So where am I, now? Did I fast-forward through the last cycle? Or am I actually behind, stuck in this weird purgatory-like place, inhabited by people who never finished high school or never finished college?

Maybe I’m just different.

Professionally, I feel so far ahead. I’m at the point where I’m comfortable with what I know, but more importantly, I’m comfortable with what I don’t know. High school students, by the way, think they know everything, and that’s where the crucial difference lies.

There’s an unusual calmness I feel now. It’s hard to express, but there’s this one scene in Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation which delivers a truthful pang to my heart every time I see it. In that scene, the lovely Charlotte (Johanssen) is lying next to the wizened Bob (Murray). She asks him, “Does it get easier?”

“No,” he says at first. Then, “Yes, it gets easier. The more you know who you are and what you want, the less you let things upset you.”

Professionally, I know who I am, and generally what I want. I know what I can do, and I don’t let things I can’t do upset me.

2008 has been a year of such professional growth and maturity.

And so in that respect, I feel ahead.

But if I’m ahead of the curve professionally, I’m behind the curve socially.

I stopped making friends after high school. After all, how could I? I started university in 2004. By 2006, I was in my last year, while the class I’d begun with was in their second. In 2007, I’d leave the country to pursue school elsewhere.

Ah, of course, I’d make ‘friends’. People I say hi and goodbye to when I pass them on the street or in the department. Perhaps people I chat with when I find the time to attend some party. But the real friends? The real friends you get to know, then learn to love, and invite to dinner parties and buy birthday and Christmas presents for? I stopped making those ages ago.

So for me, my group of friends is still largely the same group as it was at the end of high school. Then judging by the opening e-mail of this post, if anything, the number of new friends I’ve gained since then has plunged into the negatives.

This is why I balked when I heard a friend from high school had just been engaged. It was inconceivable! To me, marriage is as foreign as it is to a Grade 9 student. It’s like arriving in homeroom, only to find everyone you know has gone off to work at their jobs, or to tend to their babies and wives and husbands and goddamn garden patches.

No, not everybody is getting married and having babies. But things are changing. New friendships are being forged and old ones are being left behind.

I mean, Jesus Christ, why do I feel like I’m being left behind?

Where to from here?

In one of my previous posts, one of the readers made a jibe about one of my previous prophecies. One that was printed in the city newspaper.

“He expects his time at Oxford to be more relaxed than the last three years have been,” it says in the newspaper.

“Dude, that crystal ball of yours was so off the money,” came the jibe.

It has and it hasn’t. Professionally, I’ve continued to grow. I’m more mature and calmer about my fate in the world. In that respect, it is more relaxed. Phil-the-mathematician is alive and kicking and well as ever. He’s teaching, he’s researching, he’s writing, and he’s publishing. He’s also sleeping, by the way.

But Phil-the-everything-else? Phil-the-friend, Phil-the-boyfriend, Phil-the-joker, Phil-the-athlete, Phil the living, breathing, socially adept human being?

I just don’t know anymore.

the three mugs

In which the author prepares to leave his home of twenty years and reminisces about his past with the help of three, rather unremarkable coffee mugs.

Having garnered a position as a student at a well-to-do university somewhere across the Atlantic, I found myself in the prickly dilemma of having to pack my entire life into two, under-50-lbs suitcases (thank you very much Air Canada) and leaving for England.

Unfortunately, for someone as ‘hobbity’ and fond of comforts as me, knowing what to pack and what not to pack is a monumental task.

Take, for example, my mug situation. Every avid coffee or tea drinker knows that the selection of the proper mug is key.

But actually, a mug means so much more than the delicious caffeinated goodness it may contain. Oh yes. A good mug symbolizes comfort. It represents a good home. And above all else, a good mug tells you a lot about the person holding it.

But with very limited room and weight for my possessions, I have to pick and choose.

Thus, it’s essential that I pick the right kind of mug. A mug that evokes poetic images of my hometown. A mug that subtly hints of my childish and rumbustious upbringing. That pains me with twangs of unrequited love and past heartbreak. And of promising futures.

I have four of them. Four mugs, each with truly revealing, utterly riveting stories. Each symbolizing a different aspect of what I’d like to bring to my new home.

Now one of these mugs — which, if you’re the attentive sort, has been a constant companion throughout this blog (look up), I’ve already decided to bring. And the story, though certainly of interest and certainly revealing, is one I’m not too eager to share. Let’s leave it at that.

And so without further ado, I present to you the three contestants.

The First Mug: Mickey and Pluto

This mug, which has a cartoon picture of Mickey Mouse and the lovable Pluto dozing off was a gift from my parents for one of my birthdays. Knowing them, it was probably bought at a second-hand store.

Of the four mugs, it’s the most unexciting, and uninteresting one.

But it’s a symbol of the warm comforts of home. It makes me remember all those times I spent sipping coffee at home, studying diligently, while constantly being peppered with intrusive interruptions by my mom.

Roz Doyle, from the TV show Frasier once asked, “Why is it so easy to love your family, but so hard to like them?” She hit the question right on the nose, and I’m not sure what the answer is, or even if there is one.

It’s not a mature mug, of course. It’s a childish and homely. But it does brings back comforts of Ottawa and of my suburban home. And that’s why I like it.

The Second Mug: Hillcrest High School

One day, when I’m lying on my death bed, I’m going to revisit the fondest, most memorable times of life. And high school, well, high school will most definitely be on that list.

To me, it’s not strange to admit that my final few years in high school are considered the high points of my existence.

I had everything. I had friends from all types and backgrounds — some of whom have continued to form the core members of my troupe. I was close to many of the teachers, and able to laugh and joke with them as I did with all my friends.

I was academically at the top of my game — in a time where you could be at the top of your game. Homework and school projects were always an output for my creative brand of humour and satire, with many presentations breaking out in song and other variations of silliness.

I was an avid athlete, competitively trained in track and field and at one point, National Capital champion in the triple jump. In gym class, I got to run around like an idiot, playing dodgeball, basketball, or whatever was offered on that particular day.

I was in love. Infatuated and silly. Hopelessly romantic.

But that’s what teenage love is all about, n’est-ce pas?

I was naive and still possessing boundless energy and that youthful outlook on life kids enjoy but never fully appreciate. Most of all, I was coming out of my shell. Sure, I was still awkward, but I was learning. Learning fast.

It’s all gone downhill since then. Not in the typical sense, of course. In many ways, I’m more successful than I ever was. I’m older, smarter, and have a pair of documents that proves to the world I have enough academic training to put the average girl to sleep on a date.

But I’ve lost a lot of the magic.

I’ve lost that balanced, jubilant lifestyle I once enjoyed.

That’s what this mug means to me.

The Third Mug: Overbrook Public School

Almost nobody can tell you anything about Overbrook Public School.

That’s because there is no Overbrook Public School. At least not anymore. It was shut down half-a-decade ago.

But even when there was an Overbrook Public School, it was hardly noticeable.

The school taught kindergarten through grade 6 — which was unusual since most primary schools that bother going up to grade 6 are capable of accommodating grade 7 and 8 students as well. Tiny was not the right word to describe Overbrook.

It was minuscule.

It had about 300 or 400 students and a handful of teachers. Everybody knew everybody and that was that. The gymnasium, I still remember vividly (but not all that fondly); the roof was perhaps 12 feet high, which meant the basketball nets where 7 or 8 feet off the ground. You literally had to lob the ball horizontally, otherwise it would bounce off the roof.

No wonder our school was always creamed in basketball.

Me? I was there from grade 4 to 6, but only because the school offered a unique French Immersion program. The thing is, nothing really happened when I was a student there. I was a pretty normal, run-of-the-mill kid. I was quiet, bright, athletic, but not unusually so. Girls thought I was awkward and a total nerd and geek (oh, how things have changed…), but at that age, they still had cooties and I had little interest in the fairer sex.

So in the end, that’s what this mug — a prize for my Grade 6 speech on Amelia Earhart — represents: my humble, quiet, and terribly unexciting past.

Your see, I have high hopes for some of my friends and acquaintances. I think some of them will go on to lead wonderfully successful lives. Make buckets of cash. Marry beautiful men and women. And then invite me to summer in their waterfront homes and lend me keys to their flashy sports cars.

But wherever we are, whatever we may do, it’s important to remember that most of us come from humble beginnings. Some of us attended tiny, unremarkable schools, and, at least initially, led wholly unremarkable lives.

Because, really, it’s all about the journey.

I know what you’re thinking.

You’re thinking, “Who is that unbeareably handsome guy off to the right?”

Look at those eyes!

Those brown, mellowy eyes that just ooze intelligence and…what is that? A kind of gentle weariness and humorous melancholy?

Maybe. But either way, I bet you were so enamored by those eyes, you didn’t even question my use of the word ‘mellowy’.

And that slump!

Oooh baby. That casual slump that somehow manages to tread the fine line between downright coolness and hopeless slack. It’s a slump that says, “Baby, James Dean s’got nothin’ on me”.

What about that smirk?

A subtle smirk that’s probably maddening to most people if it weren’t so suave. That’s the kind of smirk that’ll get you the ladies, I bet. Or get you beaten up in the 8th grade.

But surely that smirk reminds you of someone?

It’s me, duh!

I love it!

Is this what models feel like when a photographer takes their picture and, through a combination of makeup and photoshop produces a product worthy of a magazine cover?

It sorta looks like me, but not really.

Because for one thing, I hardly look that good in real life.

In any case, the reason I look so good is due to my friend and acquaintance, the talented artist, Captain Slug, who grudgingly put his artistic skills to the test on my behalf.

I was sorta hoping for tights and a cape, but I suppose that suit doesn’t look half bad.

second wind

Later in high school, he went through more women than I through textbooks.

And I assure you, that was no small feat.

There was this girl way, way back in Grade 8 that I fancied. Sort of.

But you know how trivial adolescent love is — it’s a truly turbulent time, what with swirling hormonal mood shifts, awkward hair, squeaky pubescent voices and bad, bad, bad posture.

She was cute. Short, brown eyes, shoulder length brown hair, itty bitty hands, and a button nose. Almost the very definition of sickly cuteness.

I’d often stop by her locker in the morning and sorta squeak out a measly excuse for a conversation.

“Sup,” I’d say.

“Not much,” she’d say.

Then we’d sort of grin at each other and go our separate ways.

No long deep conversations on abstract math, no lustful eye-gazing, not even a bit of innocent flirtation.

I was young. It was hard enough to walk without tripping over my own shoes.

So Christmas comes, and she surprises me with a small gift. Which was totally out of the blue because we were locker buddies in spirit. Certainy not the kind of friends to exchange gifts.

It was a really cute present: a packet of a few dozen pennies individually hand-wrapped in red Christmas paper. The story of why I had such a public obsession with pennies is so vague to me now that there’s no real point in trying to remember it all.

The point is I liked pennies.

She gave me pennies. A lot of them. Individually wrapped.

And this, I reasoned to my young, naive self — could only mean one thing: She wanted to jump my eager little bones.

Obviously.

So school lets out and I deviously find her number. You know, through a friend of a friend of a friend. I’m not sure what outrageous lies I had to tell my friends to solicit her number without warranting suspicion, but I’m sure my hastily fictionalized excuses were entirely noble and pure at heart.

“Hi, is this Sally?”, I said.

“Sure is,” she said.

“It’s Phil,” I said.

“Hi Phil,” she said.

She was cheery. And the fact that she didn’t say, “How the fuck did you get my number, you perv?” pushed me onwards.

“Iwuzondring…uh…if-yud liket’go… [muffled cough] movie w’me?”, I gasped in one entirely strangled breath.

Smooth, Phil. Real smooth.

Right. But this is where it all gets blurry. If you were preparing yourselves for some amusing climax, I’m afraid you’re going to be severely disapointed.

It was a bust.

From my vague recollection, she agreed, though somewhat unenthusiastically. We then carried out an unusually protracted game of dueling datebooks which consisted of me: serving possible days for our coveted event and her: clumsily returning sympathetic excuses.

Oh, but what a tumultuous phone call it was. Minutes later, I slumped, exhausted and sweaty into my chair, mopped my forehead, and pondered the final decision: we’d both agreed — well, it was more 70/30 — to wait a week or so until school started again, after which we’d find a more suitable date.

It never came.

But you knew that already, didn’t you?

Only a few days after school started, I found out that one of the schoolyard kids — an asshole, even at that age — had asked her out and they were now an exclusive couple, whatever that meant.

Which you know, kind of sucked.

I would have appreciated a bit of an advanced warning. I don’t think she spoke to me much after that whole fiasco.

It didn’t really matter, of course. They eventually parted ways a whole 3 weeks after and he was off oogling another girl before I had a chance for a second wind. Later in high school, he went through more women than I through textbooks.

And I assure you, that was no small feat.

I did hear about Sally from a friend a few years ago. Apparently, she’d put off plans for university after high school with the intent of moving in with her amourous partner.

And here I am. 7 years later.

I don’t think I’ve ever look at a penny the same way since the Christmas of 1999.

I’ve been watching my grades fall. At this point there’s not much hope of repeating history and claiming the third and final Governor General’s Academic Medal. My research has been sidetracked by my academics, as well as my bids for graduate schools and graduate funding.

It doesn’t help that I’ve grown weary of school. I’ve been skipping classes I shouldn’t have skipped. I’ve frankly disowned the mathematical community at large and am turning into more of a recluse than ever before.

It’s hard. Because you see, without my academics, I’m nothing. Nada. Zip. Ziltch.

I’m known for my academic ability. I’m known not as a top student, but the top student. And if I give that position up, then what am I? Would I be just another one of a thousand faceless students?

If I can’t hang on to the only thing that makes me me, then what does that mean?

has-been  /ˈhæzˌbɪn/
–noun

1. a person or thing that is no longer effective, successful, popular, etc.

2. Phil. Loser.

I guess I’m starting to feel the effects of finishing undergrad so fast. I wish I was back in High School. I wish I could go to parties and get drunk. I wish I could just sit in the park and talk with a lovely girl I fancied, instead of sitting home alone at 4 in the morning, trying to understand Topology, Dynamical Systems, or whatever.

Oh, how I envy you guys.

Right-O. It got me thinking. I don’t have much to offer myself — no animal jokes, sadly — but wouldn’t it be nice if I could record a little something on my violin?

Never again.

Within half an hour, I had managed to take one of my favourite pieces for violin and piano: the famous Meditation from Thais, an opera by Jules Massennet, and rip it to shreds.

Creaky notes, bad rhythm, throw in a howling dog and an obese elephant, and you’ll only have scratched the surface of my dismal performance.

I only included about a tenth of the piece because beyond that point you’ll start hearing some strange things. Things like the booing of my neighbours, the sound of rotten eggs pounding against my window, and my own eloquent cussing.

I swear, it sounds better with the piano. And with a better violinist.

And because at this point I can’t possibly humiliate myself any further, I’ve decided let you guys have a listen to how the piece should actually sound at the hands of a competent musician.

It’s truly wonderful, n’est-ce pas? But the bastard gets a full orchestra backing him up — honestly, nobody can sound shitty with that much musical support.

Give me a fuckin’ triangle, and I’ll own this piece.

For those of you who are interested, I played this piece about half a decade ago at the Kiwanis Music Festival in Ottawa, accompanied by my lovely sister on piano. I took first place and also won a musical scholarship that year.

Sadly, it’s all gone downhill from then.

It sucked. It sucked badly because lately I haven’t been able to write. In fact, I haven’t been able to do math either. I’ve been moody, I’ve been depressed, I’ve been wallowing in the past, and I’ve been pretty useless in all aspects of life.

So I removed my crappy post. None of you should be subjected to such mundane writing. And other than posting another silly picture of myself, I’m not quite sure what I should do now.

I need a drink. I need a drink and a better life.

So instead, why don’t you squeal and coo at a picture of my beloved cat, who sadly passed away about a year ago.

We called her Minou. A bit amusing if you’re French, because ‘minou’ is another word for ‘pussycat’. Okay, not so funny. But you’re not really French are you, so fuck off.

I’m annoyed at everything they stand for, from grubby icky fingers to constant complaining and endless whining. I don’t know why, but children bring out the worst in me. I just can’t stand their fucking mess.

But much, much worse is the idea that I might’ve been one of those whiny little shits at one point in my life.

At least you’d think so, wouldn’t you?

But see, I found a way around it. The theory is that I was born in a test tube at 16 years of age. Everything else that I remember was artifically implanted in my brain by my parents. Between my mother (a biochemist) and my father (an engineer), I’m sure they would have figured out how to do it.

At least, that was the theory until today when I stumbled across this photo tucked away in the basement between several dusty boxes.

Who the HELL is that? So I wasn’t born in a test tube?

Okay, so what? My theory just needs a few subtle touches. But here’s the idea: In order to throw off the authorities, my mum and dad adopted some poor sucker to act as my childhood imposter. After I was succesfully born à la test tube, my parents disposed of the child (in the most humane way, I’m sure), and years later, here I am.

I get that a lot. From relatives, from friends, and even on a few occasions, from strangers. Purchasing expensive and unique timepieces are one of those things that some people will never get. That’s perfectly fine by me, because if the rest of the world was wearing Brietlings, Rolexes, Omegas, or Patek Philippes, then I probably wouldn’t have the luxury of writing this post.

timepieces

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that cheap watch you bought at Walmart or that Mickey Mouse timepiece you found in a box of cereal. For the price of a brand new Rolex, you can buy over a hundred plastic Timex watches. Does a Rolex keep better time than a Timex? Goodness, no.

What everybody wants to know is what’s wrong with their $50 Timex watch. It keeps track of time fine. It’s waterproof. Hey, there’s even a spiffy Indiglo function.

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that cheap watch you bought at Walmart or that Mickey Mouse timepiece you found in a box of cereal. For the price of a brand new Rolex, you can buy over a hundred plastic Timex watches. Does a Rolex keep better time than a Timex? Goodness, no. A Timex is actually much more accurate than the most well made Rolex watches — which are often off by at least a handful of seconds a day.

Bet that took you by surprise.

Well, I’m not just going to just tell you why you should invest in an classy (though often expensive) mechanical timepiece. I’m going to show you.

The Omega Aqua Terra was my first real love and first expensive timepiece. She broke my heart and was stolen from my car during the summer of 2006, but was promptly — though expensively — replaced by my insurance company within weeks. The watch is subtle, yet powerful and a classic beauty. Appropriate for all occasions and nearly everything I wear, it’s a watch that isn’t met with too many incredulous stares, but deserves a second look.

The well known Invicta 9937 is an hommage (less eloquently, a copy) of the legendary Rolex Submariner/Sea Dweller. Although its design is almost a direct replica of the more expensive Rolex, the watch holds its ground, a testament to its rugged Swiss movement (an ETA 2824).

More hefty, less expensive, and less formal than my Omega, this watch has quickly become my standard day-to-day. A watch I can wear wherever and whenever, especially when I’m a bit timid of sporting the overly expensive Omega.

My love for mechanical watches was probably fueled by my father’s collection, which contains among other timepieces, a Rolex Datejust given to him by my grandmother…in 1963! Forty years later and after some restoration by Rolex, the watch is beating steadily and looks just as beautiful as ever.

Most watches mass produced by Timex, Seiko, Casio, or whatever, are composed of electronic gizmos. These watches have a teeny quartz crystal under the casing which resonates or beats at a very distinct and very fast frequency. In turn, this frequency is used by the electronic mainboard to count the seconds, the minutes, and eventually the hours.

So from the frantic beating of the quartz, you get the steady tick, tick, tick of your watch every second.

Here’s the beauty of some of the timepieces you might see made by Rolex or Omega: there’s not a single electronic component to be found. No quartz crystals vibrating at a billion beats per second. No batteries pulsing energy through the mass of electronic transistors, wires, and boards. Nada. Zip. Zero.

No, these watches are purely mechanical. Using nothing but teensy-weensy gears, springs, screws, rotors, and pallets, these watches are counting the very seconds of your day. Accurately and precisely. Now doesn’t that blow your fucking mind?

The concept is simple: The mechanical watch uses the energy from a wound spring and keeps track of time through the highly regulated release of that energy through a set of gears and an escapement. The escapement is the engine of the movement and like the quartz crystal, beats or swings at a very precise rate.

Automatic watches, which encompasses nearly all modern mechanical watches, are powered by a rotor or weight that swings with the motion of your wrist as you’re going through your mundane day-to-day routines. And here lies another difference between an automatic/mechanical watch like a Rolex and a quartz watch like a Timex: Automatic watches will only keep ticking if you wear them. Their power supply quickly depletes in one or two days, and so it’s not uncommon to have to rewind and resync your watch with the computer clock after having left it inert on your desk for the weekend.

Inconvenient? Perhaps. But that’s the beauty of a mechanical watch. It’s not some cold robotic clunker. It’s a watch with a heart that literally depends on your existance to continue beating.

What heart? Take a look at the below animation of a typical escapement of a watch.

The spinny oscillating thing is called the balance wheel and is considered to be the heart of the watch. The wheel spins left 280 degrees (one beat), and then right 280 degrees (another beat). These periodic beats are then transferred to other gears and components which are used to keep time forever ticking.

How often does it beat? About 28,800 beats per hour. That little wheel is swinging to and fro 28,800 times an hour. And let’s not forget that through all this time and through all this elaborate beating, the watch has to deal with changes in temperature, changes in position, inertial forces applied by the wearer, shock, and what not.

Should a pallet (the pink nibs) fail to engage properly on only one out of 1,000 cycles, the error in time-keeping would amount to hours per day. It’s amazing that the best mechanical watches are configured to lose or gain up to 2-5 seconds in even the most extreme conditions.

So now I hope you can understand my fascination with mechanical watches. In today’s cold and apathetic world fueled by things like instant messenging, mass produced electronics, downtown hustle and bustle, and of course the ubiquitous chains of fast food restaurants, we’re often left feeling tired and breathless.

A mechanical watch is a historical, cultural, and mechanical marvel — standing as one of mankind’s most ingenious and calculated inventions. It’s a watch that possesses a soul and a beating heart. It’s a constant companion through life and rewards the attention and energy you provide by keeping track of that elusive maiden known as Time.

We tend to forget and neglect things that are independent of our attention. This explains why we don’t think of toasters, gluesticks, or Lays Potato Chips as being our constant companions in life.

Besides, if you think your best friend in life is a toaster, you’ve got bigger issues than choosing between a Rolex or an Omega. You freak.

I have to admit, I only briefly considered doing my Ph.D. in the US. I really didn’t give it much thought. MIT, Princeton, Harvard, Stanford, Yale, Berkeley, …they’re all top notch schools for any subject, including Mathematics.

Obviously a doctoral degree from Harvard or Princeton would be quite an honour. Obviously I would get an extraordinary opportunity to extend my research with an established supervisor at any of these institutions. And obviously, the ability to say, ‘I’m doing my doctorate at Harvard’ would be like, totally awesome.

But I just can’t help feeling that I’d like something different from North American life.

I’m sick of it. I’m sick of Canada. And I’m even more sick of Ottawa. There’s nothing left for me here except for heartache and bad memories.

Some of my referees — bless their hearts — have told me that my first and second choices for grad school would be delighted in accepting me in a Ph.D. (or rather, D.Phil) program. And between Harvard, Princeton, MIT, and my actual choices, it’s a pretty close race anyways.

It’s time that I left Ottawa. It’s time I hauled my ass off this goddamn continent. And it’s time I focused on establishing myself among the elite academia of the world.

But damn it. I’m so nervous I could wet myself.