Honest living

A few short hours from now, the Captain and I will be enjoying Bizet at the Kennedy Center. We're going to Carmen at the National Opera and I cannot wait. I bought the tickets months ago and the performance is finally here.

But this is not another post about how I am so very much a liberal cliche.

It is, instead, a reflection on my experiences at the bakery. It is a composite sketch of how I have begun to understand what Sarah Palin getting at when she was jeering us in the fake America. Seriously. I've been wanting to write this post for a while, ever since I served coffee to a classmate of mine from Brown a few weeks ago, but I haven't been able to because, well, I was working.

So yes, several weeks ago a woman from my class at Brown walked into the bakery and ordered a coffee. She recognized me immediately so I reintroduced myself and said hello. We then had a painfully polite exchange about what we had been up to since college. I told her I'd just graduated from law school and she, perhaps with a bit of relief, mentioned she was a lawyer, too. I wanted to elaborate that the bakery gig was just a temporary thing but other customers were waiting so I couldn't explain why I was serving cupcakes rather than billing hours. She was left to assume whatever she wanted, and I'm slightly ashamed I even wanted to explain myself. Yes, I am about to head out to a cushy job in a lovely place, but what if I weren't? What if I hadn't done as well as I had in law school and talked my way into biglaw? What if I'd had to take a part-time job to pay the bills until I'd found a "real" job? There would have been nothing wrong with that. That I felt the need to remind myself there's nothing wrong with that, however, smacks of intense elitism.

Because if there is one thing I have learned from working with my co-workers, then it is that I am supremely privileged to work alongside them. They struggle to get ahead, but they still keep going. They scrimp and they save and they ride their bikes from Virginia so they can open at 6:30; they hustle for tips so they can pay tuition. They work the holidays because they want to, and they refrain from visiting family until they can afford to. I am honored to be near their motivation because it makes me just a little bit better. It reminds me of just how hungry everyone is for success, and that I have been very lucky to land where I have. My co-workers have fires in their bellies, and so do I.

Another life goal: check

Two days ago I got a phone call from that mid-level retailer (not J. Crew) offering me a position at their Georgetown shop. I turned them down. But not after thinking about it. Part of me really wanted to take it because it had been my dream, when I was sixteen, to work at this mid-level retailer. My friend Andrew worked for them at the time and I thought he was the coolest kid ever - 30% discounts and a fantastic wardrobe. Finally, at age twenty-nine, I had achieved my teenage dream. Talk about a dream deferred.

When I thought about it some more, though, the prospect of working retail in Georgetown during the holidays wasn't all that appealing. Furthermore, the Captain brought up the salient point, "You'll be working two jobs, which adds up to full-time, and you don't even really need the work."

Touche.

Done and done

On Sunday I ran a marathon. My list of life goals just got a little shorter.

I had been wanting to do a marathon ever since I saw my first one in person: New York, 2002. It is now 2008. Six years is a long time to have thought about doing something. Imagine how different I felt on Monday morning, then, when I didn't have to think about marathons any more. I was a whole new person. I was triumphant.

Which is why it doesn't (really) bother me that I came in thirty-eight seconds slower than my goal time. In my mind, thirty-eight seconds is my goal time. I could be negative and think to myself, "I'm always just shy of everything I want." Or I could be positive and remember, "Hey, I just ran a marathon - and I feel amazing." Because I do.

(And for those who are curious, yes, I had one of those days on the course. It was everything I could have hoped for and more. Naturally I'm planning to do another as soon as I can. San Diego 2009, anyone?)

Waddle on

Tomorrow I "run" my first marathon. To say that I am scared is an understatement.

I am petrified.

My last long "run" was three weeks ago and I did the last five miles in interminable pain. All I wanted to do was curl up and depreciate on the side of the trail. If I'd done that, though, I still would've had to get home, and since there wasn't any other way to get home, I just kept on walking. (Yes, by that point I was walking. Hence my terrible fear.) Marathoners often have mantras to keep themselves going, things like, "Yes! We! Can!" or "Almost there!". My mantra on my last run was, "Ignore the pain."

Rather than dwell on my fear, though (or snap at the Captain and seethe at our houseguests), I've decided to remind myself of why I run as a kind of reassurance.

I run because I want to. I run because I can. I run because if I don't, I develop a kind of depression so subtle I don't even notice - until I run again and feel exhilarated. Earlier this year I had to sit out two months and I entered a period of mourning. I grieved for the pleasure of running, of finding that a distance once impossible was later no big deal. I grieved for the sense of accomplishment of pushing myself - and succeeding.

When I finally started running again I thought I had been reborn. I had bad days and slow days and walked-more-than-I-wanted-to days, but I also had good days. Days when my legs were strong and my body was fast. Days when fourteen miles were like a walk in the park. Days when I felt so coordinated and perfect I felt closer to God. Truly. On days like that I rejoiced in the wonder of creation and the gift of the human body. On days like that my running was prayer.

It is unlikely that tomorrow will be one of those days. But it might. And those moments of joy are so pure they are worth chasing.

Customer Service

Since my baking gig is only part-time, I've reached out to other, just-as-stimulating opportunities. Yesterday, I had an interview at a mid-level clothing retailer. (Not J. Crew.)

Much to my surprise, it was an actual interview. As in, "Why are you interested in [Mid-level retailer]?" and "What does customer service mean to you?" I was wholly unprepared for the question. Which might have been a good thing because the answer I came up with was pretty awesome. I thought, where was this during OCI?

So it got me thinking, maybe I tried too hard at OCI. Before every interview I had, I'd read up on the firm, practice some answers, and role-play with my sister or the Captain. Practicing gave me confidence, so I walked into every interview with a (marginal) sense of calm. Every interview except one: the one in which I was taken completely by surprise, in which the interviewer asked, "So what is your interest in San Diego?" Namely, the one which led ultimately to my best offer.

Yeah, I worked too hard.

Livin' the dream

The ongoing financial collapse notwithstanding, I still managed to find part-time work.

Friends, you're looking at your next neighborhood cupcake pusher/barista/latte artist.

I got a job. At a cupcake place. Where people drink coffee and use Macs. It's gonna be hard but I'm gonna love it. And I feel like I've finally grown into my role as an angst-laden twentysomething; I really can own it now.

Cue the indie rock.

Get a job

Two days ago I applied for a job...at Banana Republic. I saw they were hiring, and thinking my rotted brain could handle retail at least, I filled out an application.

I'm not optimistic.

The manager was very friendly, but as he scanned my employment history, he got a very quizzical look on his face. He thought he saw some retail experience, but dummy that I am, I swiftly corrected him, "I'm a lawyer." Then I explained that my full-time job didn't start until January and that I was just looking for short-term work. He seemed to understand, but I left feeling...well, dumb. Especially because I do have retail experience, at that fabled Princetonian institution, Thomas Sweet. I just conveniently forgot to mention it either on my application or to the manager in person.

It's all right. On my way home I saw that the Gap, Zara, and Restoration Hardware are hiring, too.

Yeowww!

Per CaliSeaStar's suggestion, I took an ice bath yesterday after my long run. Lucky for me she sent along an article instructing me how to do it correctly and even luckier for me, I read it.

Truth 1: It's an ice bath in name only; the water needs to be between 50 and 60F. I'm a fairly literal person; without proper instruction I probably would have unloaded my ice trays into the bath tub and then suffered the consequences.

Truth 2: There can be consequences. When I mentioned to the Captain I was doing an ice bath, he told me that crew kids have died when jumping into rivers after long, hard races. Great.

Truth 3: It's better with a lifeguard. While most people don't die upon taking their ice baths, some people do faint, so having a buddy nearby is a good idea. This was a particular concern for me, as I have been known to faint, in public, without so much as a drop of cold water - or alcohol! - nearby.

Truth 4: Yeowwww! Ice baths are cold. But I am feeling much better today, so thanks Cali. See you soon.

Smarty pants

Tonight we celebrated Dr. Caro's birthday. She was my roommate in college and is now a rocket scientist.[FN1] Sixteen of her friends assembled for the festivities, and at some point over dinner, someone noticed that of us sixteen, six had PhDs.

I thought this tremendous. Having been questioned over and over again for getting not one but two advanced degrees, I found it absolutely. refreshing. to be one of the less-educated people at dinner.

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FN1. More or less. Her card doesn't say "Rocket Scientist," but her department is Space Exploration, so good enough.

In Memoriam

The legal world has lost a shining star.

Charlie Whitebread was a legend, a very present help in times of trouble (i.e., BarBri). Without him, I never would have known about glib understanding, and this blog never would have had all the traffic it had.

Thanks, Charlie.

Mnfsouyre - UPDATED, again!

It is 5:11am. I am at my gate at Logan and already people are yakking away on their cellphones. At FIVE IN THE MORNING. What could people possibly have to talk about at five in the morning? Even with the 24 hour news cycle, it's Sunday. There aren't any markets open, anywhere.

(As you can see, I am thrilled to be up at this hour on my way to the bar. My flight doesn't even board for another hour and a half. Usually I'd blame the Captain and how he's inherited his father's 'Get to the airport eight hours in advance' gene, but this time I can't lay the blame on genetics. No, I lay the blame on a cab company that actually showed up when we called them, a highway completely free of traffic, a checked bag that came in just under the weight limit, and a security check that I'm not sure even happened it was so fast. Who knew.)

And so begins the end. When I got up this morning I looked at my BarBri books and thought, "How weird it will be to come home and throw all these out." Because everyday for the last three, arguably four, years has led up to this. Three years, $140,000, the same five pounds gained and lost and gained (and hopefully lost) again - it's all led up to this exam.

Bring it.

UPDATE: And we're off to a fantastic start. After I spilled Dunkin' Donuts all down my front I went to the bathroom to try to mitigate the damages. Now I have a huge wet spot in the middle of my chest. That's cool.

UPDATED, AGAIN! I am in Oakland! But the Captain is not. We didn't get the same flight out here because of logistical reasons, and somehow my flight made it out of Boston just fine but his had some trouble. So he missed his connection when he got to New York, and there he is still even after numerous attempts to get him to California. We're hoping he'll make it to Oakland by this evening, but even if he doesn't, there's still all day tomorrow. It's a big cramp in the studying, but snafus such as this are why we planned to get here two days in advance, anyway.

Nice to see things are going to plan.

Long good-bye

Another long day of studying done. Check.

As I march inexorably, if reluctantly, towards July 29, I'm starting to notice that the BAR is not the only thing on my mind. Which is probably a good, even healthy thing. But the other things which occupy my mind aren't necessarily happy in and of themselves. Which leads to a lot of sublimated tension, anger, and anxiety. If you're wondering whether that means the Captain got another stressed out phone call today, the answer is yes.

Today I said good-bye to my friend the Elite Racer, one of my few remaining friends from my 1L section. She and her wife are taking off on their bar trip before I return from California, so today was the last time I'll get to see her for a while. She's staying in Boston, but I am not, and even though several of my friends already have moved away, today was another reminder that my time here is almost up.

Boston is my home. It didn't start out that way but it has, undeniably, become my home. Despite my aversion to driving and my failure to find a church, I still managed to carve out
an easy, familiar existence in this city of locals. The day after I graduated from law school, for instance, I stepped into one of my neighborhood cafes for breakfast. Even though I hadn't been there in months, the owner still recognized me, said hello, and then congratulated me on my graduation. I was astonished. He explained he had a friend in my class so he had attended the ceremony on her account, but once he was there he recognized me as one of his regular customers. We chatted for a bit more, but all the while I kept thinking, "Huh. I really do spend too much money in this place."

At least it was worth it. Which is pretty much all there needs to be said about law school, too. I recently recalled that I turned down a hefty scholarship to a school in Los Angeles because I couldn't imagine myself ever moving to southern California. (And because the Dean sent me a letter extolling the conservative, evangelical values of the school. That was the real deal-breaker, but the bit about not anticipating a move to Cali makes for a better story.) At any rate, southern California is exactly where I'm headed, three years and $140,000 in debt later.

For certain, law school made me cry a lot and doubt myself and wonder if I ever would be confident in my abilities again, but still I regret nothing. I met the Captain, I made extraordinary friends, and I found that I was capable of clawing my way out of all sorts of despair.[FN1] There is value in that, and perhaps that is why I am so loathe to leave this town. This is the town where I discovered that growth still occurs, even in your mid- to late twenties, and, lo, how beautiful that new perspective can be.

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FN1. At this point I acknowledge that I exaggerate. Anyone who has lined up a cushy firm job in San Diego is, by rights, not a failure. But having made it this far by working, working, always working for perfection, I find the mindset tough to break.

Progress

No, not in the bar exam sense, but in the recovery of my identity sense.

As some of you recall, somebody stole my identity and caused me great vexation. In April, the IRS told me I'd get my tax refund by June. In June, they told me they needed authentication from me, even though I'd already sent that authentication in April. Seeing that the IRS was not going to help me unless I helped myself, I declared Wednesdays to be "Call the IRS Day." (And after the bar, EVERY EFFING DAY WILL BE 'CALL THE IRS DAY.')

Anyway, it is July 23, and I now have a caseworker to follow up with. I hadn't been able to follow up with her before because she hadn't been assigned to the case until last Friday.

Whatever. She and I are going to be good friends.

I shall not be moved

My senior year of high school, I was a peer group leader. Why I tried out for an activity usually reserved for the professionally popular (jocks, cheerleaders - i.e., NON-orchestra geeks) I don't know. But somehow I made the roster and found myself on a weekend training retreat somewhere in the woods of New Jersey. With the professionally popular.

One of our workshops was designed to show us how positive reinforcement can yield different results from negative reinforcement. (We were about to be trusted with fourteen year-olds - the school didn't want us making them cry.) The workshop leaders lay down a line of masking tape along the length of a room, and everyone else took a seat along the line, except for two volunteers. The volunteers took turns donning blindfolds and walking down the room, while trying to keep as close to the line on the floor as possible. For the first guy, everyone shouted words of encouragement, no matter if he was actually on the line or veering off into oblivion. For the second guy, the group shouted insults and words of...well, let's just say frustration.

As you probably have figured out, I was one of those brilliant, blindfolded volunteers. And as you also probably have figured out, I volunteered to be insulted. By the professionally popular. But even though I knew I was going to be insulted and that nobody actually meant all the horrible things they shouted at me, I still remember being confused and hurt as I walked down the room. But I also remember a tiny, tiny laser beam pointing me in the right direction, and an even tinier voice telling me to ignore the very loud yelling. And so I walked.

When I reached the end of the line, I took off my blindfold and was told that I had just beaten the positively reinforced volunteer by eleven steps (out of a total of thirteen). So not only did I totally frustrate the workshop, I also gave a big, imaginary middle finger to the professionally popular.

I remain proud.

But I still remember how conflicted I was as I walked down the line. Every bone in my body was telling me to give in and to give up, and that's exactly what I would have liked to have done. Instead I kept on walking. It was very confusing, this internal tug-of-war.

So as the days wind down to the bar, and as I grow more and more tired and sad, I'll have to remember that tiny little voice. I shall not be moved. Read entire post...

Attitude

Last week I had the pleasure of actually seeing some of my friends at Mr. J's (Ms. J's husband) thirtieth birthday party. It was at this party that Ms. J informed me that Massachusetts BarBri isn't nearly as supportive of her class as California BarBri is mine, and that all of the various confidence boosters that BarBri's been feeding me are completely alien to her. I was surprised. Because my BarBri class makes a regular habit of reminding us that we're competent and that's all we need to be. (In fact I anticipate only more of that tomorrow, when Prof. Honigsberg, Superstar, delivers our lecture.)

Really? I asked. No apocryphal stories of just how little competence you need to show in order to pass? No reassurances that the bar exam is not that hard, none at all?

None, Ms. J replied.

So I concluded, naturally, that the California bar exam really IS that hard, because why else would BarBri be taking the time to psych us all up?

Holy. moly.

Issue spotter

A woman shoved me on the T this evening. I've become so mired in the bar that my first thought wasn't to tell her to keep her hands to herself or even to shove back.

No, my first thought was, "Harmful and offensive contact!"

Sigh.

Next time I'll stick up for myself. You should, too. She was wearing an ill-fitting top and could have used a good trip to the hair salon. And the therapist.

Grammatical dishonesty

I can't, and won't, remember which rules of professional responsibility are "may not" and which rules are "must not."

So I plan to use "cannot" instead, if asked on an essay about professional responsibility.

It's professional responsibility, not linguistic responsibility.

Ungh

I don't know why I do this to myself. Just now I paged through the Boston Globe and read through the weekend section. (It was an aspirational thing.)

I was slapped in the face when the paper reminded me that not one but TWO of my favorite acts are on Cape Cod this weekend. Jenski had alerted me to this before, but I had looked away from her email at the time so as to pretend I'd never saw it. But see it I did. And how.

Despair.

This is what happens when you page through the weekend section. Don't. read. the. weekend. section.

Developments

Yes, there's a new look. I don't necessarily like it, but since my audience somehow expanded this weekend (I think my readers now total five), I figured I ought to dress up the place. Even though I'm not 100% sold on this new appearance, I'm exhausted at the moment so the look is good for now.

Today I decided that MBE stands for Most Burdensome Exercise. And I think that's all I need to say about that.

Because my big concern today was the California Performance Test. I submitted a practice test to BarBri last week and my grade came back...with room for improvement. I'm not surprised I did so poorly because I took it in a great rush and I did not leave myself much time for contemplation. Still, I remember thinking to myself when I took the exam, "WTF? What are they asking me here? This wasn't in the workshop! How the h--l am I supposed to answer this?!" So I don't know if any extra time would have helped. Later this evening I compared my answer to BarBri's sample answer and all I could think was, "Oh s--t."[FN1]

The sample answer had broken out issues I didn't consider to be separate issues (I thought they were components of a larger issue), so naturally I started fretting about my general ability to spot issues in the first place. Which ability was an overall concern for me in law school, where I didn't do as well as I had hoped, so of course I subsequently spiraled into a vortex of worry. Where I think I remain, because I'm not particularly optimistic at the moment.

Sigh.


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FN1. Up until now I've steered clear of swearing, but why be someone I'm not?

Erratic behavior

Now that I'm taking the bus everywhere, I have been reminded that many, many people are mentally ill. Just this morning a fellow passenger, bedraggled and dirty, started talking to himself in a hurried, continuous manner.

I mention this because I wonder just how precarious anyone's mental health truly is. Studying for the California bar, which apparently has a 39% overall passage rate, will lead a person to do that - question her own sanity. I don't think I'm insane for having chosen to take the bar, but I do wonder how I will respond to the constant pressure and anxiety as the dreaded exam approaches. The first thing to go? Self-consciousness. Last night I emptied my trash in my underwear. Rather than go to the trouble of putting on a pair of shorts, I scurried out into the hall with my garbage, threw the bag into the hall trash, and scurried back to my apartment. Nobody saw me, and at least I scurried, but seriously - no shorts?!

A couple nights ago the Captain and I watched "A Lawyer Walks into a Bar," which is a documentary about six people who take the California bar. It frightened me enough to whip out the flash cards during the movie. Which is probably a good thing, so I thank my buddy Ms. J for recommending it to me.

Back to studying. With shorts.