Of Commitments and Committees

A number of my friends have decided, all of a sudden and quite ubiquitously, that it is time to tie the knot. Which is all well and good, except that I seem to have been the only one who decided that getting a Ph.D. was a better option as far as general sanity was concerned. Not to be outdone in my own pursuit of coolth, I will now proceed to prove to you that the process of courtship is really the same as getting a PhD.

Really. It all starts with one of two things: either the vague desire to make something out of one’s life, or the overarching need to avoid the onset of real life. Before you know it, you’re searching for that perfect topic to work on. Topic, of course, is but a stand-in for soulmate; who hasn’t spent hours dreaming about that one person who will complete the course of life? I spend most of my time looking for that perfect topic, yes.

Life, unfortunately, isn’t that simple. First comes failure, then disillusionment, and thence dawns understanding and the spirit of compromise. And thus is set the stage for an “intervention” via the family and parents. Or, as the case were, the advisor – venerable guardian through thick and thin in this battle with the thesis Gods. No, not really – for all they could care, parents just want to push another kid out of the home and get done with their responsibility.

Few and blessed are those that find the “one” – for most of the rest of us, it’s just a matter of working on the topic that we find least offensive and mildly interesting, with the hopes of having something to show for all the wasted time and effort. And it is here that the fun factor really notches up a quotient. The one thousand lies that may be used to justify the wedding of one’s choice are but barely sufficient to cover the acknowledgements in a dissertation; perhaps the introduction if you’ve put in some real work and have luck on your side.

Half-truths and homilies delivered, it is now time to inform the world of this grand achievement. The faithful “Dear All” format is carefully exhumed and dusted out, and a mass dispatch of the sort unseen since the time pamphlets were dropped from Sopwith Camels is undertaken. Congratulations and feeble attempts at humor apart, the real reason anyone ever agrees to attending the defense is the food. Especially with early morning timings that would put the most conscientious early-riser to shame; for as to the grad student 11 a.m., so to the rooster and the constellations 5:13 a.m.

And then it all comes down to the fateful day – the running around like a headless chicken, the blinking away tears while staring forward blankly, and the harried parents desperately trying to shepherd a successful negotiation through the maze of rituals. The extended family hovers around, daggers and claws drawn, waiting for the slightest slip – the advisor, meanwhile, must guard his progeny from the half-whispered insinuations of the committee. The younger folk in the audience do their very best to set things up and ensure smooth proceedings, knowing full well that at some stage they will be up on that dais too – yet how little they know of the pointlessness of preparation.

See, the problem with being married and getting your Ph.D. is singular. You know you can do it because everyone before you has tried and succeeded, yet you finish and everyone’s already done it before you have. Never mind – I’m back to being cool. And will have something to put up on Facebook in response to all those pictures of cute babies. Post-docs anyone?

PS: Please tell your kids to hold off from updating their relationship status boxes until I graduate.