Private (and not so private) life of...me

Ahh the small pleasures in life…. As the finals week approaches, one tries to take comfort in anything. I am taking comfort in the British edition in GQ. It’s Men of The Year Issue, with one woman thrown in… Heidi Klum. ‘Nuff said. But the fact of the matter is that the UK version is vastly superior to its US counterpart. Maybe it’s the just the Brit effect (you know, when you almost feel like you need to read it aloud with a stiff upper lip with a perfect BBC annunciation) but it seems to be written for sophisticated adults, of which I consider myself one and not for, well, whoever the US GQ is written for. Come to think of it, all of my favorite publications come from the perfidious Albion: The Economist, the Financial Times and now the GQ. When I think of Wall Street Journal, I think of steak, potatoes and chest bump celebrating a deal well done. The slightly pink FT evokes a rather different image, one of more sophistication and refinement. And the Economist… I wager that it is impossible to find a better written, more thoughtful and least biased publication. Despite the fact that I disagree with the editorials quite a bit, especially ones about Middle East, it is next to impossible to fault the writers’ logic or adherence to facts, much as I sometimes would like to.

The GQ is in a whole other category. Clearly not a professional magazine, it is something to remind me about the other side of life, the life that will come once I am out of school and am (hopefully) a happy part of the income-receiving part of the population. And it does this with style, flair and elegance. Not a sign of chest bumping in sight. Call me a snob (in fact, please do, I will gladly admit to that) but I prefer cultivated reminders of masculinity to its wild, uncouth counterparts that are native to this country.

Unfortunately, there is not too much time on my hands to enjoy the fruits of a far-away, refined civilization. As I mentioned before, finals week for Quarter 1 cometh and I can hear its heavy footsteps and almost feel its breath on the back of my neck. On top of that, there is a Statistics project due Monday and it will be a little taste of hell. I can already sense that. Bring it on, I say! The GQ oasis lies beyond the wasteland and I shall get to it, no matter the cost. In fact, I think I will subscribe despite the exorbitant price of $89 for 12 issues. What’s money for anyway?