Lawyerish

Making the Grade

When we were growing up, my brother and I had sharply divergent ways of approaching school.  I sweated and hyperventilated over every assignment from first grade on up. I had an unrelenting fear that I would forget to do a project or study for a test.  On occasion, I would get up in the middle of the night -- roused from sleep by the force of my own anxiety -- to pad downstairs and rifle through my backpack to make sure that I hadn't forgotten to complete some minor bit of homework.  I lived in a state of panic. 

Humanities and social science courses were my strong suit, so I was usually comfortable that I would get A's as long as I did all the work and studied to a reasonable degree; but in math and chemistry and the like, I spent days figuring out exactly what I had to get on the tests to maintain a perfect GPA. If I received anything less than a 95 on an exam, I had a massive anxiety attack and then begged for extra credit and redoubled my efforts.

My brother, on the other hand, would take five minutes toward the end of the semester and dash off a calculation of what it would take for him to get an A versus a B in any class where he was somewhere in between.  He almost always determined that an A would require far too much effort, so he'd shrug, close his textbooks, and spend the rest of the evening talking on the phone to his girlfriend or playing Kings Quest on the computer.

I wish someone had pulled me aside back then and whispered in my ear, "Psst.  You're both going to end up in the same place.  Take it easy."  Sure, for my trouble, I got a few plaques and a teensy bit of scholarship money, and every now and again I can mention on my blog (to zero effect) that I was valedictorian; but I nearly gave myself a stroke in the process, and here we are now:  both lawyers at New York firms; both happily married; both living in comfortable homes. 

Despite our long-running standardized test rivalry (I did better on the SAT; he bested me on the LSAT), which one could argue proves we're evenly matched in terms of brain power, the clear conclusion to be drawn is that my brother's plain smarter than I am.  It just didn't take him that much effort to do well enough in school and then very well in life. 

Of course, it's kind of a cosmic joke in this whole thing that, as New York law firm types, we both work our butts off.  My brother was so relaxed for so many years, and now he's one of the hardest working people I know. And I obsessed all those years -- even in college, I melted down when I got a B+ -- so that I could...obsess over work.

I mean, I'm glad that I wasn't ambitionless or apathetic as a teenager.  And it's not as though I had no life outside of school -- I spent hours a day in ballet class (and my achievements as a dancer, incidentally, are far more important to me than those shown on my report cards). I don't have some overarching regret about how my life has turned out -- I like my job just fine even though, like most lawyers, I frequently wonder what things would be like if I'd taken a different path.   

I guess it's something that they don't talk about in school, something that my brother understood instinctually -- that overachieving, it turns out, only nets more achievement.  Or at least more expectations of achievement.  You establish yourself as a good, hard worker, and you're given...more work, more responsibility.  You show that you are efficient, so you're given...more work to complete (in less time).  Which, in the workplace, yields actual rewards -- mostly financial, some intangible (the old pat on the head, the slender pleasure of the job well done) -- as opposed to a flat gold star. 

I don't object to working, or even working hard, of course. I've tried the not-working gig (see: leave of absence to study acting), and it drove me nuts far more than the daily march to the office ever could.  There's no question that the whole work ethic and goal-orientation and drive to succeed are ingrained in my DNA as much as my red hair and freckles, and in that way this life suits me.

In the end, though, it's the sense of balance that makes the difference (again, my big brother got it right long before I did).  For me, it was usually One Big Thing, and that One Big Thing merited the same laser-like focus as my schoolwork did:  in high school, I had ballet; in college, I had the crew team; in law school, I had...uh...wine tasting (ok, so my grade obsession kind of backed off for those three years). 

Now, I don't have one big thing (which sometimes leaves me feeling like I have no passion, but it also means I'm not being absolutely consumed, as I was with ballet), but I have running and spending time (or at least emailing) with friends and writing and walking the dog in the park and lounging on the couch with my husband.  I don't shirk my responsibilities at work, but I make sure that I have time for these things.  Because they keep me sane, and without them I'm still waking up at 2am in a cold sweat, checking my briefcase and BlackBerry to make sure I haven't neglected some work assignment.   

More so than ever before, I feel like my life is about the connections I make with people and the little things that bring me happiness far more than it is about meeting some vaunted standard or getting an "excellent!" on my work product.  And in that sense, all that hard work has finally paid off. 

Nothing to See Here

Don't you hate it when people write something on their blog only to say that they might have news -- potentially! exciting! news! -- and maybe they'll tell you about it later (but not now!)?  And then they won't even give you a hint as to what it is?  And then you get all in a tizzy because:  news!  Fun!  Secrets!  Whee!  Bloggy excitement! 

But after that initial excitement fades, you find yourself sitting there at your desk, all fuming and pissed off thanks to the tantalizing maybe-news of some complete stranger from the Internet (or possibly an Internet friend or acquaintance, but in any event someone you're not likely to be able to call up and demand that they come out with it right now, missy).  Because you don't really know them, and how dare they play with your emotions like that?  Making you get all aquiver about some news that may not even be news, and about some person you don't really know!  Hmph.  (Except of course, you can't really be mad at them because they are part of your community bloggy goodness, so really it's a fake huffiness and inside you're still all fluttery because:  news!  (Maybe).).     

And -- and! -- sometimes, after they drop this nugget about how they might have news, not now, but possibly soon -- after creating this buzz of sorts -- they go off onto other things and some period of time passes and then finally someone gives them a poke and says, "Hey, what they hell happened with your potentially! exciting! news!, goddamnit?" and then they realize they forgot all about their big, sweeping, slightly smug maybe-news teasers and in fact, they changed their minds about the potentially life-altering decision, so in fact there's no news at all anymore, and now it's such an anticlimax that they won't even tell you what the news was going to be, because well, it's over, so really it doesn't matter anymore, does it?

And then you glower about for a while and think about how, if you were the kind of person to toss around tidbits about your life on the Web, you'd at least be considerate about it and you sure as hell wouldn't torture people in such a self-satisfied manner, a manner that reminds you of that annoying girl in elementary school who would sing-song about how she had a secret, and didn't you always want to punch that girl right in the face? 

Seriously, don't you hate that?

Yeah.  I hate that, too.

(Maybe I will have something to tell you later.  Maybe.  And maybe it will have some modicum of excitement.  Well, at least for me; I can't really predict whether it will be all that exciting to you, except for a select few of you who already know what I'm (maybe!) talking about, and you just keep quiet now, mmmkay?)

(If I do have anything to tell you, it will be in a few weeks, so don't get all on the edge of your seat or anything.  And it might not come to anything, so I don't know why I'm even writing this, except that it's late and I don't have a helluva lot else to say.  But how about this -- if it doesn't come to anything, I'll at least tell you what it was, not that it will matter because by then you really won't care anymore and you'll be all, oh that?  Feh.

(NO, y'all, I am NOT pregnant!  Dear GOD, no.  Adopting, remember?  ADOPTING.)

(Carry on!)

Dust to Dust

So it's Ash Wednesday.  I'm not a super-religious person, but for some reason I observe Ash Wednesday and Lent, in the sense that I swing by a church on my way to work to get ashes swiped on my forehead (and then endure the sidelong glances and the "you have a little something there..." gestures and comments all day long -- you'd think people would catch on since this happens every year), and I give something up for Lent. 

(When the dude administers (?) the ashes and says, "Remember we are dust, and to dust we shall return," I cannot help but think of this cheer they used to do in high school:  Ashes to ashes and dust to dust/We hope you bring your britches when you jam with us!  I don't think I have to ask if anyone else has this problem.)

I grew up going to a Presbyterian church, but aside from weekly Sunday school, I only went to services on Christmas and Easter and when I had to acolyte (a duty I usually performed with Allison; after we lit the candles, we'd sit on opposite sides of the altar and pass notes back and forth, to Allison's mother's deep chagrin). 

In high school, our youth group got together with the Episcopal youth group (wild, I tell you -- it was wild), and planned a worship service at each church.  I loved the Episcopal service -- the kneeling and the Book of Common Prayer and the processional with the big cross -- so after I left home, I started going to Episcopal churches on the few occasions a year that I find myself ready, willing and able to spend a couple of hours on a Sunday  praying and whatnot.  Not that I don't enjoy church, because I really do -- whenever I go I'm glad I did; but I usually sort of forget that it's something that could or should go on my to do list for the weekend along with running, cleaning out the cat litter and doing the grocery shopping.  You know? 

Perhaps to make up for all those Sundays that pass on by with nary a "hey, God!" from me, I repent in the form of giving up some food item or bad habit for forty days during Lent.  Oftentimes I give up chocolate and/or diet soda, and by Easter I am a walking mess.  Immediately after services on Easter Sunday, I hightail it to the nearest Duane Reade where, hands shaking with desperation, I purchase a Diet Coke and a Cadbury Creme Egg, which I consume feverishly on the sidewalk before staggering home high on caffeine and sugar, chocolate smudged all over my fingers and face.

That scenario isn't really working for me this year.  I'm having some trouble deciding what to give up, in fact.  Let's see:

Chocolate?  I just made a pan of brownies last night, and it would be a shame for them to go to waste.

Diet soda?  Are you quite mad?  This is one of those things I've determined that I can't live without.  I have tried (see above), but it's not pretty, and I'm not feeling especially strong-willed this year.  I suppose I could give it up if I could be permitted to spend the next forty days languishing in bed, but since I assume I will be expected to function between now and Easter, I've got to have my Diet Coke.

Balance Bars?  This I could maybe see, because I could eat a bowl of cereal in the morning instead of my pair of Cookie Dough Balance Bars, which would probably be the healthier choice anyway.  But then I would have to allot an extra ten minutes to my morning routine before I leave the house, and I'm not sure where those ten minutes are going to come from.  Whereas the Bars are so tidily portable -- no matter how far behind schedule I am, I toss them in my bag and: breakfast! 

Cursing?  Fuck no!  Oh, I kid.  I don't curse all that much.  At least, I don't think I do.  Shit.  Do I?

The Internet?  HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.  Next!

Crappy reality TV?  I think the next "cycle" of America's Next Top Model starts soon.  So no.

Running?  Well, I've already effectively given that up -- although I did gasp my way through a four-miler this weekend, so all is not lost.  Since Lent is supposed to be for one's betterment, however, I'm thinking that indulging my sheer laziness is probably not serving the spirit of the holiday as it should.

Felicity?  You hate me, don't you? 

About all I have left to give up is eating lunch from the vending machine.  I do this at least a couple of times a week, and it's pathetic.  It's sad and pathetic.  Combos and Nutter Butters do not a nutritious lunch make.  (Although they are damn tasty, and don't you even try to deny it).  So I think that has to be it -- it will be good for me, but also enough of a sacrifice that I'll feel...I don't know, penitent.  Because I do love those Combos. 

Of course, three weeks from now, when I'm in the throes of PMS, you will find me kneeling before the vending machine, weeping copiously and clutching 85 cents in my hand.  But I will be strong!  I will resist!  If Jesus could...uh, what did he do?  Wander in the desert?  Hang out in the forest?  Or something?  for forty days, then I can live without Nacho Cheez Twisters and Twizzlers.  I think.  Maybe.

So, regardless of your religious convictions, what would you give up if you had to go without something for forty days (or thereabouts) -- something whose absence you'll feel, but it won't kill you or, I don't know, give you a massive withdrawal headache or make you long for its fizzy, fizzy goodness (let's not go crazy here)?   

Personality Goes a Long Way

There is a book on our shelf that I'm afraid to read.  It's not a horror novel or a book of true crime or even a sherbet-colored confection of so-called chick lit.  It's called Dominion, and it's about animal rights.  Or not even rights, per se, but treating animals with respect and humanity.  Or something.  I don't really know what it's about, beyond a vague notion of animals and their treatment, because, as I say, I'm scared to even peek behind the front cover.  Oh, I also know that it's written by a former speechwriter for George W. Bush, which, again, invokes fear in many of us; but that's not the problem, either. 

The problem is this:  I am afraid that if I read it, I will have to stop eating meat.

Apparently, this book includes descriptions of the goings-on at meat-raising farms and slaughterhouses.  Which:  okay.  I have read The Jungle and Fast Food Nation, and while they didn't make me want to skip with joy, they didn't turn me off meat altogether because, well, I could rationalize away the former because it's from, what, the 1920s?  And as to the latter, while it wasn't entirely about McDonald's, which I eat almost never, the focus was more on the mass-market beef producers, not the grass-fed, organic, free range, super-happy beef I buy at my local market (when I buy beef, which isn't at all frequently).  It's not like I'm a food hippie (not that there's anything wrong with that), but I try to buy the antibiotic-free, not-eating-its-own-feces meat.  Because I'm a sucker, maybe, and also it helps me sleep at night. 

Anyway, Dominion, on the other hand, apparently discusses, among other things, the ability of animals to sense that they are going to be killed.  I hear, for example, that there is some kind of discussion toward the beginning of how intelligent pigs are, and how loyal they are to humans when used as pets.  You know, kind of like dogs, where you can look in the animal's eyes and feel some reciprocity of emotion, some sense of recognition.  And that...well, I just can't think about those kinds of things.

Even the cover makes me turn away in horror -- it depicts a sheep (or maybe sort of a teenaged lamb) all tied up, looking exceedingly pitiful in a way that makes my chest tighten, because I have held a newly-born lamb and felt its sweet muzzle against my cheek, and for the love of God, I have a dog -- and what if HE were ever tied up like that?  HOLD ME. 

It should go without saying that I don't think being a vegetarian is evil or bad, not at all.  God.  It's quite wonderful, and lots of people tell me that you don't miss the meat when you get used to the whole tofurkey thing and all that, plus you have the added bonus on living on somewhat higher moral ground, and not being a big fat hypocrite like me, who believes in rights for some animals, but not others -- or whatever I believe in this area, which isn't fully established in my own mind, really, because, again, I try not to think about it too much.   

I have nothing against eating vegetables, either, and it's not like I saw into a flank of cow every night of the week.  In fact, I'm probably, I don't know, 70% vegetarian as it is.  I eat my fair share of soy products -- we use soy milk on our cereal and I always order tofu in my Thai fried rice instead of meat.  The crispy rolls we have with our Friday night dinner are vegetarian.  During the week, I eat lunch at my desk and it generally involves nothing terribly nutritious nor terribly junky, but it most definitely does not involve meat.  (Who can eat a big, hot meal for lunch and go back to work and do anything but nod off at their desk?  Not me, man.) 

It's just that...well, on occasion, however infrequently, I love me some bacon.  And steak.  And burgers.  And about eight days a week, I consume chicken in some form (good GOD, we eat a lot of chicken).  I need my protein (I am aware you get it from other sources, just work with me here), and, frankly, I enjoy the taste and texture of most meat.  I like having meat as an option, at least.

The thing is, I was a dancer, as you know, so for years I had to restrict what I would put into my mouth until there was almost nothing left to choose from except bread and jam, rice cakes and cereal (and, oddly enough, Oreo cheesecake when it was available), and I'm not particularly eager to go back to that rigid and soulless existence, to being the girl who can't find anything to order on a menu or who asks for special accommodation at weddings and bar mitzvahs.  It took me years to be able to eat normally, to walk into a restaurant and decide on an entree without going through a 900-step thought process to analyze the choices and the feelings of guilt that might ensue.  I want to travel and try lots of different foods without all kinds of restrictions (and, dude, the best foods I've ever eaten, namely beef noodle soup and grilled pork dishes in Vietnam and this one bacon thing I had in Tuscany, were meat).  Falsely or not, it gives me some sense of a place to sample the food offerings to the fullest extent possible.  Also, I've come to understand and appreciate how we, as people, bond over food, and it's something I'm so relieved to engage in now.

Let's also not forget that even now, even without all those old ballerina restrictions and with this desire to embrace all kinds of new things, there's a whole host of stuff I won't eat, not for weight-management reasons, but due to taste or texture issues:  seafood of any kind; bananas that have even one spot of brown on the peel; citrus fruits; brussels sprouts; certain types of mushrooms; spinach that has the slightest hint of graininess; pears; frisee; radicchio; olives; ham cooked in beer; creamed onions; anything in the fridge that requires sniffing for possible spoliation before consumption; licorice...I could go on, but you get the idea.

Nigella Lawson wrote in one of her cookbooks that she fears one day waking up with an overwhelming urge to become a vegetarian, because it would cut out of her life forever so many things that she loves to eat, so many dishes that are central to a holiday feast or a family tradition.  I guess that's kind of how I feel about it -- on some level, I kind of feel like it's something I should do, and it would make a lot of sense in terms of my values and obviously my love of animals and all, but on another, well...I'm selfish.  I don't wanna. 

Ultimately, I may have just this one life here on this planet, and to the extent I can enjoy myself, I want to.  Not at the expense of others, of course;  I mean, I try to be the best person that I can by taking the best care of my loved ones -- most definitely including my pets -- and being a good friend/wife/daughter/whatever and being kind to others and doing charitable work and on and on.  But I guess I have my limits, and, unfortunately (or not, depending on your point of view) this is one of them.

The Life and Times of the Terminally Uncool

As you can see in the sidebar, I'm currently reading I am Charlotte Simmons, and so far it's excruciatingly familiar, and it's dredging up some uncomfortable moments from my early college days that I'd much rather forget.  I wasn't quite the sheltered hick that Charlotte is as a freshman, but I shared her social awkwardness, the kind of awkwardness that comes from growing up smart in a place that values perfectly hot-rolled hair and a good choir voice above brains, at least in girls, and also from eschewing the kinds of activities that most college freshmen hold dear -- namely, getting shitfaced and hooking up with trees, if that's all that's available.

When I went to college, I expected to find lots of like-minded kids, smart people who would want to spend hours on end hashing out deep philosophical issues and making arcane literary references.  I thought that in the honors program, I would find people who would rather spend evenings in coffee houses or arty theaters than at sweaty frat parties.  I mean, I wasn't naive; I assumed lots of people would drink; but I figured at such a big school, I'd be able to carve out my own niche, in which I could be myself -- my non-drinking, overly thoughtful self -- and not be ostracized, as I'd been in high school.

Freshman year, my parents and I rolled up to my residence hall in our minivan packed with milk crates and hunter green bedding and made our way down the seemingly miles-long hall that was the third floor of Frost House.  I was wearing a green henley shirt neatly tucked into khaki shorts and neatly belted (all J Crew, of course), and the first thing I unpacked after I'd made my bed, with its plaid flannel pillows and LL Bean throw blanket, and hung up my Laura Ashley clothes (AAAAH!), was my Rush Limbaugh book collection.  (I know.  I KNOW.)  Somehow, in high school, I'd let myself be influenced by two of my three friends, who were staunch Republicans, and we scoffed at the gross moral turpitude and irresponsible fiscal policies of anyone more liberal than the way, way far right. 

Within the first five minutes of our arrival, a stack of flyers came sliding under the door of my room onto the black linoleum floor.  They featured hand-drawn graphics of toilets or kegs or, best of all, a flannel-shirted figure with his head in the toilet, one hand still holding the keg tap.  The brightly colored slips of paper invited all the world to a bunch of frat parties, with the promise that those who accepted the invitation could look forward to "bowing to the porcelain god" before the night's end.  I wrinkled my nose and dropped the flyers in the trash, confident that I would never have to stoop to such a social low.

Naturally, later that night, after my parents had headed to their hotel and I'd met a few girls from my hall, everyone began to mobilize to head out to the frats.  I wasn't happy about it, but I didn't want to separate myself so early on by refusing, so I went along.  To my chagrin, the hall suddenly whirred with blow-dryers as girls squealed around to different rooms, trying on each others' clothes and trading make-up tips and gossiping which houses were the best and which guys the most desirable -- it was high school all over again. 

We left the building around 8 o'clock, which we soon learned was a grave faux pas.  We got to the first fraternity house and it was deserted and quiet.  All thirty of us walked into the echoing living room and stared around at the expanse of sticky floor, furnished only with a tired couch in one corner.  A shirtless guy appeared out of the kitchen, a forty of malt liquor in one hand.  He took stock of this group of uninitiated freshmen girls, and begged us to stay.  He offered us a case of beer and urged us to hang out; he clearly figured at least a few of us would get drunk and stupid enough to give something up if he could just keep us on the premises long enough.  Most of my hallmates shrugged and passed the beer around and draped themselves on the threadbare couch.  I felt sick with the need not to be there any longer.

One girl glanced over at me at that moment, and we locked eyes -- a kindred spirit.  We booked it out of there and spent the evening wandering around the coffee shops and stores of the campus town, chatting about all sorts of things and generally avoiding the packs of increasingly inebriated students that staggered around campus to and from the husk-like mansions that housed the upstanding men of the Greek system. 

Of course, I did end up going to a few fraternity parties over the course of that year, and generally they were how Tom Wolfe describes them, all sweaty bodies and pulsing music and guys sharing wink-wink inside jokes and couples grinding all over each other.  I never drank anything at those parties (I did start drinking sophomore year, after I joined the crew team and met some girls who weren't all sorority-like and conformist, but also managed not to be geeky, and I realized that I could drink without being all shit-faced and stoopid, although of course in my life I've had some of those moments, and, sure, some of them were even fun), and for the most part I spent every moment desperately wanting to leave.

Looking back, I know now that I was still figuring out how to be, like, normal; I'd spent so many years in a ballet studio, away from parties and mixers and, I don't know, conversation, and when I wasn't dancing, I was with my family or my superclose friends who knew me inside and out -- with them, I never had to think about what to say or talk about.  Now I was in this place where the prevailing idea of fun involved standing around kegs clutching plastic cups and forcing words to come out of my mouth that wouldn't sound supremely dorky or snobbish.  And, frankly, I wasn't very good at it.

Thankfully, after what seemed like weeks of torture, I found some friends who liked to go to offbeat movies and talk until the wee hours and rent videos and play board games, which fit right into my supremely boring version of recreation.  I could tell they weren't going to be my friends for life, but we had a good enough time, and they weren't computer cluster nerds or anything -- they were just nice, kind of bland college kids.  We occasionally went to parties at the urging of one of our friends or acquaintances, but for the most part I was spared the continued agony of trying to attain some level of cool that was so not me. 

Over time I explored different personas for myself -- the crew jock, the glee club groupie (oy), the College Republican member (OY -- that changed, too, by sophomore year, you'll be pleased to know), the dutiful girlfriend (yawn) -- but none of them fit just so. Finally, senior year, I found a niche in a great group of girls with whom I'm still friends, and with whom I could strike a balance between studiousness and socializing. 

And in the end, I was able to amass the kinds of silly drunk stories that everyone has from college, but without tanking my GPA or ending up in a gutter somewhere or pretending to be someone else entirely (see: the flocks of black bootcut pants and tiny backpacks-wearing girls that thought they ruled the campus -- shudder). 

As we all know, today I have stopped trying altogether; I've fully embraced my lack of cool, and I have to say, it's such a relief to be here, to finally relax, and to find myself in some really great company.  I just wish I could have arrived here sooner -- while I loved college on the whole and I'm a huge fan of my alma mater and all that, I wonder if I wouldn't have been better off at a place like the University of Chicago, someplace where they graded hard and attracted super-studious types, a place whose motto is "Where Fun Goes to Die."  Because THAT?  Would have been the school for me. 

Therefore I Am

Last weekend, my husband and I watched a haunting documentary called Unknown White Male.  It's about a 37-year old guy who woke up on a New York City subway early one morning with no memory of who he was.  He didn't know anything about himself.  Nothing.  Not his name, not where he was from, not one single fact about himself.  He got off the subway at Coney Island, walked around until he found a hospital, and went in.  They could find nothing medically wrong with him; even now, after years of MRIs and CAT scans and tests, no one has been able to determine what caused his complete amnesia. 

And here's the thing:  when he was in the hospital -- utterly bewildered as to what was going on or why he was in this predicament -- they gave him a form to fill out.  And he signed his name.  He could not remember his name; but that reptilian part of the brain that holds onto how to do things?  It still knew how to direct his hand to sign his name (Doug, by the way). 

Between the signature and a phone number they found in a book he was carrying, they were able to find someone who knew him to come pick him up, and from there he slowly pieced together the shards of his life (oddly enough, it seems like he hung out with a lot of totally hot women before the memory loss -- he was good looking, British and fabulously wealthy, so one doesn't puzzle over it for too long). 

I won't go into the story more, because you should see this film; but I will say that it is a fascinating exercise in existentialism.  It raises all these questions of who we are when we have lost everything that has heretofore formed our identity, whether it's our love of pizza or our inside jokes with friends or our precious memories of childhood Christmases.  Who are you if you can't remember why you liked your friends?  If you had to be reintroduced to every single person in your life, including your immediate family, would you ever come to love all those people in the same way? 

In Doug's case, his friends and family all noticed a marked change in his personality; they had grown to know and love him because he was one way, and then suddenly he was an entirely new person, not only because of his eerie, childlike quality but because he had lost the character that had resulted from his lifetime accumulation of experiences.  Many people said the new Doug was kinder, more engaged in life, less cynical.  Meanwhile, he got together with the guys he'd always goofed around with, and he seemed slightly bewildered at why he'd ever felt so connected to them.  He truly was not the same person anymore, not at all.  And yet, we all like to believe there is some essential core to us that forms Who We Are -- but what is that core, really, if it can be stripped away in an instant, as happened to Doug?

To pick up your life anew after it is not just shattered but literally erased is unthinkable to most of us.  But people live some version of it every day; in a strange way, Doug's story reminds me of the thousands upon thousands of people who come to this country as refugees every year. 

People flee horrific violence, oppression and persecution from wartorn, unstable countries, and they come to the United States because they see it as a beacon of safety and freedom.  They leave their homes and families because they see no other way to save themselves; many have been imprisoned and tortured in ways that you and I cannot fathom.  They have escaped with their pulse and their breath and their bodies more or less intact, and the only thing they can think of is to come here in order to stay alive.  This is their only way out. 

Freedom, of course, has a price.  Many refugees leave their families behind, thousands of miles away; many live here for years without contacting their parents, spouses and children for fear of jeopardizing their loved ones' safety.  They leave behind stable jobs and high social status only to find themselves driving gypsy cabs or sweeping floors here.  Most do not speak or understand English well.  And all of them must revisit their trauma on an almost daily basis while navigating the Byzantine immigration court system, which is characterized by lagging delays, overburdened judges and endless frustrations. 

I have represented several refugees in their applications for political asylum, and all of them have lived through these stories of loss -- loss of their former selves -- although, unlike Doug, they were continually haunted by their prior lives, both the shadows of their trauma and the ache for familiarity. 

One of my clients, who had been imprisoned and tortured simply for being a member of a politically active family, fled from captivity on foot, with only the prison uniform he was wearing.  He walked for several months, through a huge mountain range, to escape into a neighboring country.  Another young man's entire family had been killed because they were a religious minority and political dissidents; he risked his life to escape the country, only to be detained when he arrived at JFK airport.  For more than six months while his application was pending, he was kept at a detention facility out in Queens, where he slept in a room with twenty other immigrants and shuffled around in an orange jumpsuit like a criminal.  When we won his case and he walked out the door of the detention facility, he stood on the sidewalk and wept.  It was his first time seeing the sky since his arrival in this country.

Each of the refugees I have had the privilege of representing left everything they knew behind.  Their lives, as they knew them, had been erased.  They were starting over, not just with a new job or home, but with new selves; selves that no longer have to live in fear, but that also must adapt to an entirely new and often baffling environment.  However, unlike Doug, they are forced relive their stories again and again.  They must recount the excruciating details of their horrific pasts to immigration officers, lawyers, interpreters, and judges.  The remnants of their past are constantly shuffled, reconstructed and analyzed for authenticity and credibility.  Even when their applications are granted, they remain in this unfamiliar world, alone.  Safe, but alone. 

Of these, who has kept their identity?  Doug, with his emptied-out life that must be rebuilt from scratch?  Or a refugee in an unfamiliar land but with memories -- however stark -- of everything that came before, even though what came before effectively no longer exists?  Which life has the greater continuity?  If either of these situations happened to you, would you still be you? 

This is Not a Test.

Every Sunday morning, after I shuffle out of bed and walk the dog, I lounge on the couch with the Sunday Styles section of the Times.  I can't be bothered with the actual news.  This is true every day of the week -- I skip right past the front page (pausing only to check the weather in the top right-hand corner) to the specialty sections:  Dining on Wednesdays; House & Home on Thursdays; the Arts for film reviews on Fridays; the magazine, Real Estate and Travel on Saturdays; and, at last, the Styles section on my quiet, day-off-of-running Sundays.  (I don't even bother with the paper on Monday or Tuesday, apparently.)

I'm not really into fashion, as I've mentioned, but I find this fluffy, slightly-behind-the-trends section riveting, and I love -- and possibly cannot live without -- the Weddings & Celebrations page.  There's an entire blog devoted to deconstructing and mocking this downgraded "society" page, so I won't bother venturing into that territory.  I'll just note that the Weddings page no longer requires blue blood for publication of one's joyous union; these days, it runs more to the nouveau riche side of things, focusing mainly on investment bankers, bond traders, law firm associates and anyone and everyone who ever graduated from Yale, with the occasional du Pont, Rockefeller or Whitney descendant thrown in as a nod to the country club set. 

Not that I'm such a swell, quite the opposite, and I'm not saying this is a bad thing; I just find it a fascinating sociological comment on where we are as a culture, who we value, and how certain markers of "success" -- the Ivy League degree, the MBA, the hedge fund affiliation -- grant status, since a name or bloodline is no longer entirely relevant. 

Meanwhile, the "how we met" stories are often unintentionally hilarious, and they provide a glimpse into the (terrifying) world of dating.  In this week's Vows column, for example, the bride describes the "checklist" she'd had for a potential mate, and how her now-husband didn't meet her preexisting criteria, yet she fell for him anyway. 

It happens that this woman also wrote a book about why people in their 20s and 30s are having such a hard time settling down and getting married.  Strangely, she seems not to have connected the two concepts -- that is, that her mental evaluation form undoubtedly kept commitment at bay in her own life -- until this guy came along and forced her to realize that she was capable of falling for someone who didn't fit her paradigm of the Ideal Husband.  Wow.  What a revelation.

For whatever reason, the subject of the checklist seems to come up a lot with my single friends.  It's possible that, before I got married, I was the only woman in Manhattan without a dating checklist.  And when I get into these discussions with single women, it never ceases to baffle me -- I can understand having certain non-negotiable requirements for a mate, such as religion or a desire to have children (or not).  In fact, on those points I encourage people to be ruthlessly rigid -- if you know you don't want to be with someone who is Catholic, for example, then for Pete's sake, don't go on a single date with anyone who fits into that category.  I know couples who have broken up after FOUR YEARS -- just when the woman believed a proposal was immiment -- when the guy realized that, oops, he actually wants to marry someone of his own religion.  NO.  If it means that much to you, figure it out before you've combined all your books and introduced your families and shared toothpaste.  Gah. 

It is something else entirely to say, "He must be over 6'1", a champion swing dancer, an expert in current events, have traveled in at least eight countries outside the U.S., and make at least two million a year after taxes."  That seems to me a way of keeping yourself single.  Permanently. 

I get that we all probably have or had a notion of our ideal mate.  It may have formed when we were small children -- our future husband would be part Charles Ingalls (the benevolent father figure with a pioneering spirit), part John Denver (the talented idealist with a love for the earth and its children), part Encyclopedia Brown (the young detective with his powers of deduction), and part Daddy Warbucks (rich as all hell -- and also, prone to breaking into song-and-dance routines without provocation).  But in the context of modern dating, this ideal -- a shadow on a wall of a concept, not an actual person -- mutates into a laundry list of minutiae that would be impossible for any flesh-and-blood human being to fulfill.  And because it seems that one's options are endless in terms of meeting someone -- between the Internet and the bar scene and school and work and trips to Vegas and do not even get me started on speed dating -- people delude themselves into thinking that there really is someone Out There who will check off each and every item on their list.  News flash:  there isn't.  And if there is, by some miracle?  That person may well not make you happy. 

Before I met my husband, I was with someone who, on paper, might have seemed the perfect match.  Someone with a checklist would have thought they'd won relationship bingo.  But that person didn't and couldn't make me happy.  And when I met my husband, I thought he was a nice, handsome guy, but no angels sang or lights went on over my head.  It took a long time, with lots of deep conversations and long walks through the park and sidecars in low-lit bars and banal moments of watching TV over General Tso's chicken, before I knew.  And it wasn't his dancing ability or his height that clinched it.  It was that with him, I felt safe and secure, in the same way I've always felt safe and secure with my own family.  With him, I can be myself, however scattered or neurotic or goofy or stinky or sappy.  He makes me laugh until I go into that silent-shaking laugh mode.  We support each other; we are teammates and equals.  We could move to the middle of the Gobi desert and make a nice home and have a great time just because we're there together. 

So I guess, in a way, I did have a checklist.  I just didn't know what it was until he came along. 

Happy Happy. Joy Joy.

New York magazine featured an article last week about a relatively new academic field that is devoted to the study of happiness – positive psychology, it’s called.  I find the whole thing fascinating.  Beyond the simple fact that people have devoted themselves to studying something so seemingly subjective, the results are rather gripping.  Mostly, they suggest that I should be rather miserable.

I’m married and I am of Danish descent, which means I have two things stacked in my happy pile (apparently Danes and Australians are the happiest folks around [meanwhile, my husband derives from the most morose group, the Eastern Europeans]).  On the downside, I live in New York (one of the least happy places), I am a lawyer (least happy profession), I tend to rehash events from my childhood (an indicator of discontent), I don’t go to church much (devout believers are the happiest), and most of my family and an increasingly alarming number of my friends live far away from me (you get the idea). 

Even without positive psychology, it’s pretty easy to figure out that New York can be a rough place to be.  But the day-to-day stresses of living with millions of other people aren’t what take the biggest toll on your happiness.  It’s more the constant striving – the sense that there are so many people better off than you, more attractive and with loads more money and better real estate.  And not just a few people or even a few hundred people – more like thousands and thousands of people.  You can work yourself sick (which many of us do anyway) and never come close to catching up. 

Maybe more importantly, there are so many choices here.  Although this is what New Yorkers tout as the greatest thing about the City, it has been found that too much choice has a negative influence on happiness.  Which makes perfect sense:  If you have one or two choices, then you just make a decision, live with it and move on.  But here, pretty much every choice you make involves hundreds of options.  So you can spend an awful lot of time and energy revisiting past decisions and agonizing over future ones.  This is why lots of people have a terrible time finding someone to marry – they can’t stand the thought that they haven’t exhausted all of their options.  And it holds true in things as minor as deciding where to go to dinner and as major as deciding whether to stay in your current job or try out one of the thousands of other jobs out there. 

Caroline Knapp wrote a beautiful and revelatory book entitled Appetites, in which she posited that one of the reasons so many women suffer from eating disorders is that we become overwhelmed and paralyzed by the seemingly infinite choices before us and must find some focal point for our anxiety.  For many, that focal point is food, something that is simple and easy to control.  (By the way, WHY did Caroline Knapp have to go and die?  As I read Appetites, I about dissolved from the thrill of reading so many of my own thoughts expressed so eloquently and coherently; I didn’t know she had died until I finished the book and read the “About the Author” page.  It was devastating.  I had been planning as I devoured the book to send her a gushing fan letter – something I haven’t done since I wrote to Ricky Schroeder in third grade.) 

In a sense, it would be a relief not to have so many options.  We wouldn’t have to think about things so much or obsess over how to make a contribution to the world.  In that sense, the feminist movement and all that it has wrought is both a blessing and a curse (of course, given the alternative, I’d much rather have too much choice than not enough).  I also think this is why religions that have hard-and-fast rules and strictly defined gender roles are gaining strength; things have gotten too complicated, and people are grasping for ways to simplify the world for themselves. 

So, back to me (it’s all about me!):  what do I do, given my imbalance of happiness indicators?  Do I leave New York for somewhere with fewer options and less conspicuous wealth?  Ummm, maybe, but where?  Missoula, Montana, and Branson, Missouri, rank among the happiest places in the U.S., but I’m quite sure they won’t have enough delis.  There isn’t anywhere that’s geographically closer to more of my family and friends, since everyone I know is so scattered about – in any given place, I would just be closer to different family and friends than I am now.  And I can’t just ditch being a lawyer; I took a leave of absence and tried that before – it didn’t pay the bills (plus I still found ways to make myself miserable with all the over-thinking and the guilt – more on that some other time). 

Maybe I just have to try not to be so restless and to stop worrying about what other people are doing or what comes next.  I have choices, but I don’t have to make a decision right this second about what comes next.  Be in the moment, and all that crap.  Maybe I’ll go read The Celestine Prophecy and then throw up and die. 

Tagged!

Accent:  When I tell people that I am from Georgia, the first thing they say is, "Where's your accent?"  Apparently all this time I have spent in Yankee Land has neutralized it.  However, if I spend any time with Allison or my mom, the "y'alls" find their way back into my speech and Ah get me some Suuuuthern in m' voice.

Booze:  When I was in law school, I was in the wine tasting club and learned a little bit about varietals and regions and whatnot, at least in the half hour or so of each session before I was too drunk to do anything but leer at my classmates; so I know enough not to judge wine by the price range but not enough to speak about it with anything approaching authority.  In short, I know what I like, which doesn't veer terribly far off the conventional path.  Also, I enjoy a cold beer (especially when accompanied by a cheeseburger and fries or some spicy Indian food), and I love Champagne and prosecco -- the bubbles!  They are so festive! 

Chore I Hate:  Unloading the dishwasher. 

Dog or Cat:  Both.  The cat came first in early 2001; he was a Dumpster kitty discovered by a friend of mine after a snowstorm.  He's rather temperamental, although he's very affectionate in the bathroom.  As for the dog, I saw an Italian greyhound on an episode of "Frasier" years ago, and said, "THAT IS THE DOG FOR ME!"  It's skinny, it's neurotic, it requires constant attention and sleeps right up next to you.  Not the breed for everyone, but a perfect fit for me.  I'm not a crazy dog lady, but I have a possibly unhealthy attachment to this spindly little baby deer of a cuddlebucket.   

Essential Electronics:  Computer, of course, plus my iPod Mini.  I tried for a brief while to resist the hoopla, but the iPod is just the greatest thing ever for running and commuting.  Thank you, Apple.  Thank you.  Oh, and TiVo.  GOD BLESS YOU, TiVo!

Favorite Cologne:  I wear Sugar by Fresh.  My husband wears John Varvatos, which is sultry but not too cologne-y.  It's a big step up from Polo and Aramis, both of which made appearances in his personal fragrance history. 

Gold or Silver:  Silver or platinum. 

Hometown:  "America's Greatest Little City!"

Insomnia:  I've never understood people who can't sleep or have trouble sleeping -- I mean, it couldn't be simpler!  Head on pillow, close eyes...you're there!  Unless I chug a liter of Coke before bed, I am out and usually don't wake up until my alarm goes off.  It's a good thing, too, since I am a bear if I don't get my solid 8 hours.  (Ok, I must admit that I occasionally wake up in a sweat about something at work and lay in a panic state for a while, obsessing over some minor detail in a brief or some unlikely omission in a document; but even then I'm usually able to get back to sleep until morning.)

Job Title:  Associate.  Attorney-at-law.  Esquire.  Commercial litigator....Anyone out there still awake?

Kids:  Zero. 

Living Arrangements:  Recently-purchased 2 BR, 1.5-bath apartment in Manhattan near the Park.  Homeownership is, in a word, terrifying. 

Most Admirable Traits:  Nice-smelling hair.  High tolerance for discomfort and annoyance.  Protestant work ethic.  Efficiency and neatness.  Some of these are flip-sides of my (arguably) worst traits, i.e., obsessive orderliness/perfectionism, unrelenting rigidity/adherence to routine, compulsive aversion to disappointing people, tendency toward overwork, attachment to exceedingly high goals and standards.  All of which make me a potentially great lawyer, I am told...

Number of Sexual Partners:   Riiiight.  Hi, Mom!

Overnight Hospital Stays:  None, except after I was born.  (knock on wood)

Phobias:  Failure (atychiphobia).  And on hot summer days, as I descend into the blast furnace-like subway stations, I suffer from bromidrosiphobia -- fear of body smells. 

Quote:  "Whatever I FEEL like I wanna do.  GOSH." 

"Your Grammie Hall?  Where did you grow up, in a Norman Rockwell painting?  My grammie wasn't so into gifts.  She was too busy getting raped by Cossacks." 

"Ken Park, Class of 2004.  Hi!"

Religion:  Episcopalian.

Siblings:  Older brother.  I'm still getting over the various methods of psychological torture he practiced on me as a child.  I'll write about the Puppy Torture sometime when I have a therapy session scheduled for shortly thereafter.

Time I Wake Up:  6:00 on the weekdays.  Usually around 8 or 9 on the weekends.

Unusual Talent or Skill:  Coming up with a worst case scenario for any situation, especially work-related.  Also, converting any compliment or statement by my husband into the response, "Are you saying I'm fat?"  Convincing myself that people do not like me.

Vegetable I Love:  Corn, peas, potatoes in any form, carrots, spinach, broccoli, asparagus. 

Worst Habit:  See, supra, "Unusual Talent or Skill."

X-Rays:  After my brother slammed my hand in the car door (the technician, who was a bit of a boob, started to x-ray my head, apparently having misread my chart -- he was unable to explain how someone could slam their head in a car door).  Dentist, of course -- the last time I went, they took about 500 of them.  I really hate the dentist.

Yummy Foods I Make:  Red velvet cake.  Molten chocolate chip cookies with ice cream.  Nigella's chocolate cream cake.  Curry chicken.  Stir fry.  Pasta alla carbonara.  Pesto chicken.  BBQ chicken and grits. 

Zodiac:  Leo. 

The Guatemalan Gypsy Curse

In the early 1970s, before I was born, my father traveled to Guatemala on business.  While there, he met with a dissatisfied customer who expected a warranty provision to cover a repair on the machinery he had bought from my dad's company.  My dad informed him that the warranty provision did not apply to this particular repair.  A heated argument ensued. 

Eventually, the customer was fed up.  He glared across the conference room table at my father and said, "If you do not give way on this, I will put a hechizo de gitanos [gypsy curse] on you." 

My dad told the man to give it his best shot. 

His eyes locked on my father, the customer growled, "Que seas arrodeado de abogados todos los dias de tu vida" -- "May you be surrounded by lawyers all the days of your life."

At the time, the only lawyer my dad knew was his brother.  He figured he was safe and soon forgot about the curse. 

Twenty years, two kids, a job change, a move and many more business trips later, my dad seemed to be safe from the curse.  My brother was a broadcast journalism major in college, and I was well on my way to becoming a professional ballet dancer. 

In the fall of my brother's senior year of college, he took a class on First Amendment law.  He connected with the professor and the material, and excelled in the course.  Somewhat out of curiosity, my brother decided to take the October LSAT.  He rocked it, scoring a 170.  Although it was late in the year, he fired off some law school applications.  That spring, he was accepted with a scholarship at a well-regarded law school at a state university.

When my brother made this rather dramatic change in his career plans, my dad was as surprised as the rest of us.  Suddenly, he had a thought:  the hechizo de gitanos!  But one more lawyer in the family doesn't really surround me, my dad thought.  Clearly just a coincidence.

Toward the end of high school, I had to choose between pursuing ballet or going to college.  I auditioned for some companies and some college dance programs; but after visiting other colleges and weighing the options, I decided to go for the full academic experience rather than the artistic one -- I wasn't sure I saw the point of having my parents pay college tuition in exchange for more ballet classes, complimented by courses like dance theory.  All of which would enable me to...wait tables.  So off I went to a Public Ivy, intending to study psychology with a goal of becoming a counselor for dancers.

Although I made some feints in various directions when deciding on a major -- religion, b-school (a huge mistake) -- I ultimately settled on History (it had a lot fewer requirements than English or philosophy -- I had dismissed psych as a vapid sorority girl major).  Which, of course, meant I was either destined to linger as a TA for the next 15 years while writing a dissertation on something appropriately obscure like "The Kitchen Debate Meets Leprosy: The Role of Housewife Lepers in the Cold War, April 1952-October 1954" -- or I could go to law school.  LSAT, top-5 acceptance...and there I was.

By this time, my dad couldn't help but wonder -- his two children, both lawyers...the hechizo de gitanos??  He reassured himself; again, he wasn't necessarily surrounded and, after all, neither of us were married yet.  There was still a chance to prove that the curse hadn't stuck.

In June 2003, I married my husband.  A lawyer.  My dad started to sweat a little.  And then, two years later, my brother married his wife.  Another lawyer.  Dad could deny it no longer -- the hechizo de gitanos had him.  He revealed this story for the first time when he made a toast at my brother's wedding. 

Now that I know the whole story, I realize that my life has followed its inevitable course not by the grace of God or the cascade of events resulting from a few errant choices of my own.  No, when I fret about the path my life has taken and the career in which I have found myself, I know that, really, I had no choice.  I owe it all to my dad, a warranty provision, and a Guatemalan gypsy curse.