[As an adult, I have not become any less prone to awkward moments. And I like to save my most humiliating behavior for the most inopportune moments. Read it and cringe.]
I am extremely clumsy. Two decades of ballet training have had no effect whatsoever on my ability to control my limbs or navigate my environment effectively. When walking around corners or through doorways, I am certain to slam one side of my body into the closest vertical surface. My living room is an obstacle course; every protruding corner threatens the well-being of my toes and kneecaps.
I am no longer allowed to cut anything in our household after having to be rushed to the emergency for stitches in the wake of a bagel-slicing incident in which part of my thumb ended up detached from my body. I cannot hit or catch projectile objects of any kind -- you could throw me a ball the size of a sofa cushion, and it will slip through my hands and land at my feet while I blush furiously and feel like an asshole. I was surely the only child alive to strike out in a game of teeball.
And so, it was inevitable that my klutziness would manifest itself in some way, even in the highly non-physical legal profession.
Exhibit A:
As a junior associate, I attended a bar association conference at a Caribbean resort. Most of the people in attendance were judges or law firm partners. I didn't know a soul there.
On the first day of the conference, a few generous souls took pity on me (after determining that I was not there with my parents or spouse) and invited me to have lunch with them. We had to wait for a table at the poolside cafe, so we were all standing around chatting. Being the Caribbean, it was hot. And sunny. And I hadn't eaten in a few hours. And someone gave me a rum punch, which I sipped politely but cautiously. And then I knew. The tinny sound in my ears, the static in my vision. I grabbed a chair and sat down, suddenly not caring that no one else in the group was seated. I tried to pretend I was fixing my shoe as I put my head down between my knees. But it was too late.
A clamor of voices.
"Is there a doctor here?!" someone shouted.
The scrape of a metal chair on the cement patio.
"I'M A DENTIST!" a man shouted as he leapt over a chaise lounge and crouched by my side.
The dentist took my pulse and poured a sugar packet into my mouth while I heard various people disclaiming responsibility for me (these were lawyers, after all) -- "she's here ALL ALONE" "what was her name again?" "do we even know she's REALLY with the conference?"
I opened my eyes to find my lunch companions huddled nearby, staring down at me. One of them whispered to her husband, "Maybe she's anorexic." I tried to glare at her as the dentist helped me to a chair. Someone brought me some water and a Coke. This is the scourge of being a young, tall, fair-skinned woman of Scandinavian descent: the vasovagal response.
The rest of the week, people treated me like a leper, except for one delightful couple who took to me in spite of my tendency to get the vapors and invited me to dinner each night. When I returned to work, a partner thanked me for making such a great impression on people on behalf of the firm.
Exhibit B:
Last fall, I had to attend a court conference for a case I was working on. It was one of those huge commercial litigations in which all of the lawyers cannot even fit into the courtroom at one time. It was a rainy day, so the partner ordered a car service to take us to court. I was wearing a pantsuit, one of my standard-issue J Crew suits with skinny pants and a cropped jacket.
The partner and I headed downstairs to our waiting car. The car was parked about two feet from the curb. A Grade IV rapid was gushing between the curb and the car. The partner got in first. As he scooted across the back seat, I reached my foot out and begin to bend down to clear the top of the car as I bridged the raging river with my legs. The contortions required for this maneuver met with resistance from my J Crew pants. As I descended toward the seat, I heard a VERY LOUD RIP. I felt something give way Down There. I said, "Shit."
The partner, who was talking to me about the case, did not appear to have heard the rip or the curse. He kept talking. I positioned my briefcase over my lap and attempted to gauge the severity of the damage while en route to court. It was bad. Stem to stern. The seam had zero connectivity between the bottom of the fly and the back of the waistband. I wasn't hearing anything the partner was saying; I was just thinking about how I was going to get out of the car, go up the steps of the courthouse, make my way to the courtroom and return to my office without showing my butt to the fifty lawyers on this case.
I did have some things going for me: In a moment that seemed to be divine intervention, I had chosen to wear black hipster bikinis that day instead of a thong. My pants were navy. I was carrying a briefcase containing a legal pad. Drawing upon the skills that I developed while attending a junior high school that forced all the girls to wear white shorts for gym class, I plotted my strategy. Before I knew it, we had pulled up to the courthouse. It was time to act.
As I slid out of the car, I positioned my briefcase over my butt as we walked up the steps. But then, panic ensued: security. I would have to relinquish my briefcase to pass through the metal detectors and THE PARTNER AND SEVERAL OF OUR CO-COUNSEL WERE NOW BEHIND ME. As I placed my bag on the conveyor belt, I turned sideways, giving my companions a profile shot. I sidled through the metal detectors. I am sure everyone thought I was insane, but that was infinitely better than having one of them come up to me and whisper, "Dear, you seem to have split your pants" in that concerned, sympathetic tone that the gym teacher used when she came over and told you that you were leaking blood all over your white shorts and you just wanted to DIE.
After retrieving my bag, I saw some of lawyers on our case ahead. I grabbed the legal pad out of my briefcase and held it in front of me while using my other hand to continue obscuring my rear with my briefcase. Nothing to see here folks - just an eager associate, ready to take notes! You never know when I might need to write something down! Could be any minute!
I used this makeshift sandwich board to cover me until we reach the courtroom. There, I was relegated to the jury box, which is the only place some of us could fit. The conference lasted all of ten minutes. I sandwich-boarded myself out of the courthouse. The partner and I made our way back to the office. Before we entered the building, I told him that I had to run an errand. I rushed to the nearest J Crew store and bought a whole new outfit. And asked them to fix my pants, using steel-reinforced thread.
i would have panicked and confessed immediately to the partner because i just can't think when things go THIS WRONG.
my god. this is just brilliant. i think you're my new hero!
Posted by: amyjami | August 30, 2006 at 02:18 PM