A Friendship Forged In Big Law

2011. September. Monday.

I had been working in Big Law for a month, in an office on the 26th floor of a midtown Manhattan high-rise. Since my first day that office was mine alone, but that was about the change. Because this was the day I would be getting an office-mate. 

The "office-mate" is an interesting Big Law phenomenon. The firm takes an office that really is meant for one person and shoves in a second desk and chair and some extra shelves, and asks two virtual strangers to share the space for an indeterminate amount of time while working ridiculous hours under unbelievably stressful deadlines. The office-mate stories rival freshman year of college roommate stories in that the pairings are rarely just ok, but are generally either a complete match made in heaven or an absolute horror show.

I didn't know who she was, but I knew her name because a couple of days before someone from maintenance had come around and added it to the little sign outside the door. And I knew when she was arriving because I was told to move all of the files that I had been storing for the past few months on the empty desk that would be hers.

And then she was there.

Sometimes you meet someone, and just click. You know what I mean. It's like you have been friends forever even though you have only known each other for approximately 45 seconds. It was like that for us. Within a couple weeks we knew all about each other's families and about each other's lives. She became one of my most loyal blog readers. We had endless things in common. We told secrets we hadn't told anyone else, save for our significant others. We shared. A lot.

I was there when she got engaged and she was there when I got the call that my sister had a baby, making me an aunt for the first time. I danced at her wedding and she came to my house for Jewish holiday meals. We helped each other with some tough stuff and I'm not sure I would have made it to the other side without her there to see me through.

We don't share an office anymore, both of us having moved up and into our own, but we're the same as we always were. Not work friends. Real friends. Our friendship may have been forged in the crucible of Big Law, but it will no doubt last long after we have taken our leave of these high powered halls.

And today. Today a bunch of us got together to celebrate this amazing girl and incredible friend and send her off in style as she heads out on maternity leave.

Thanks for everything, A, we'll miss you on the home front. Wishing you months of happiness, love and excitement, and a beautiful and miraculous baby.

An Interview, A Department Store, And Some Very Expensive Shoes

When I got the call from Cardozo Law School asking me if I could come in for an interview that very afternoon, I figured that the gods of law school admissions were smiling down on me. 

I could have still been home in Florida for winter break, but the week before I had randomly decided to change my plans to detour through New York for two days before school started again. So when I got the call, I was sitting in my pajamas in my friend's living room on Long Island. 

The dean only had one slot available that day and I assured his secretary I would be there.

"But what will you wear?"

My friend's question burst my happy balloon as I suddenly remembered that I was on my way back to school with a suitcase full of jeans. A glance through her closet told me that we were nowhere near the same size, and a glance at the clock told me that I had approximately four hours to get to the interview.

Twenty minutes later I was on the Long Island Railroad speeding towards Manhattan. I deferred to my friend's expertise and headed straight for Macy's on 34th Street when my train pulled into Penn Station, where she assured me I could buy something presentable.

Standing in my underwear in a dressing room, surrounded by piles of discarded clothes, sweat slid down my back and my heart was beating fast and furious and I tried - and rejected - suit after suit.

With the interview drawing closer and visions of sitting in front of the dean stark naked racing through my head, I went out to the racks one last time. Having given up on the idea of a full suit, I headed for a rounder of skirts and pulled some out at random. I grabbed a handful of sweaters and ran back to the dressing room.

Once again, skirt after skirt ended up in the reject pile until there was only one left. It was brown and wool with a label that said Tahari, which didn't mean anything to me except that miraculously, the zipper slid up easily and it kind of matched one of the sweaters now sitting in a heap on the dressing room bench, so suddenly it was my favorite brand in the world.

Without a glance at either price tag I flew to the shoe department and circled the room four times before I finally found the one pair of brown heels in the store. They were Nicole Miller, which also didn't mean anything to me except that they fit and they matched and my interview was in 47 minutes, so I went straight to the check-out counter.

645 dollars, 30 minutes, a stop at Duane Reade for stockings, and a stop in a Starbucks bathroom to change later I walked into the dean's office.

Three weeks after the interview I got rejected from Cardozo.

But since I'm sitting in my law office wearing the skirt and the shoes right now, I figure I got my money's worth anyway.

Photo Evidence

So as you may know, I have a little trouble giving blood. I've done it twice in my life, and both times have ended in a bit of a mess. You can read the stories here and here. As I lay there after the second time, 2 weeks ago today, I decided that maybe it's just not for me.

But that didn't stop me from photo-documenting the second experience for posterity. There wasn't a place for pictures in my post yesterday, and since I'm NaBloPoMoing it this month, it seemed like a better idea to post the pictures entirely separately, thereby fulfilling my posting requirements for NaBloPoMo Day 21. Win-Win.

So, here, for your viewing satisfaction, is photo proof of my second blood-donating disaster. A series I like to call, "At Least I Was Wearing Pants"

Cupcake dessert after lunch in preparation for the blood drive.
Or, just an excuse to eat a really good cupcake.

They tried to make the whole thing private.
They failed.

Delightful view of the post-donation snack table from my chair.
Nurse comes over and tells me to uncross legs.
I comply.

Donation goes bad. Legs once again up in the air.

And headrest down. View of the ceiling.

Headrest down even further. Ice packs appear.
Decide to investigate putting recessed lighting in my house.

$5 Starbucks giftcard as a thank you for donating.
For my troubles.

Grande Peppermint Mocha purchased with the aforementioned
Starbucks gift card + 75 of my own cents because who knew you
now needed to take out a mortgage to buy a Starbucks drink?

The Day I Ate Breakfast. And Wore Pants.

As the elevator made its way down to the lobby of my building, my stomach churned, my hands got clammy and for a second I considered getting straight back on the elevator on the first floor and going back upstairs.

But I didn't

Instead I forced my feet to move, and pointed them in the direction of the blood drive registration table, set up in a corner of the gargantuan lobby and sectioned off by blue fabric curtains.

"Have you ever given blood before?" asked the volunteer manning the table.

"Yes, once," I replied, trying to convey through the desperate tone of my voice and a wild look in my eye the absolute horror of that particular situation.

I filled out the paperwork and sat down to wait, wondering all the while how I managed to get myself into this situation a second time. I was working at a different law firm in a different building with different colleagues, but the result was strikingly similar. Me, volunteering to give blood in solidarity with the other lawyers.

I tried to calm my racing heart by thinking about all the ways that this time was different from the last time. I was six years older. I spent the day hydrating. I ate breakfast and then a great lunch at a firm event, complete with one whole cupcake and the frosting from a second. No way would it happen again.

But the voices of my demons shouted and I was considering conceding defeat and heading back up to my office when they called my name.

I climbed awkwardly into the chair that the nurse pointed to, and waited again while she tended to a few other donors. My forty story building housed no fewer than two other law firms and offices for two major financial institutions and the lobby was teeming with people heading towards the Starbucks on the far end for their afternoon caffeine jolt to push through the last hours of the workday.

If something embarrassing happened, it wouldn't be just the few lawyers from my firm that would see, but the whole damn building.

But nothing would happen, I promised myself. Willed myself to believe. Last time was a fluke. A one time freak occurrence brought on by too much stress and not enough food.

I could do it this time.

Fueled by positive thinking and the promise of juice and all the Oreos I could eat once it was over, I extended my arm, and was once again hooked up by a nurse with a bright smile and a sunny disposition.

I was still connected to the bag when I heard the familiar buzzing in my ears and a wave of nausea once again knocked me back in my chair. This time the nurse was right there, and flew straight into action. She shoved a bottle of juice into my hand and swung the top of the chair down and the bottom half up as she unhooked me from the machine.

And as I once again laid, covered in ice packs with my legs straight up in the air and passersby gawking, all I could think was, at least this time I'm wearing pants.

Believe it or not this story happened a mere thirteen days
ago in the lobby of the building in which I now sit.

Click here for some photo evidence of the occasion.

And, if you are so inclined, head on over and read my piece
from last week's Yeah Write where I wrote about my other
unfortunately hilarious experience with blood donation.

The Day I Should Have Eaten Breakfast. And Worn Pants.

Sitting in the passenger seat of the junior partner's car, it occurred to me that I may have been about to embarrass myself Above the Law style.

When I took the law firm job for my second law school summer, I promised myself that I wouldn't be one of those summer associates who would do anything to impress a partner. But here I was, a mere three weeks into my twelve-week gig, doing exactly that.

It all started with a firm-wide e-mail two days before.

There was a blood-drive in an office park a few blocks away, and the partners were asking for volunteers to get a good showing from our office. I said I would go. I had never given blood before, but figured it couldn't be that bad. I googled around to find out how I could prepare, and all of the websites said to make sure to eat a lot and drink plenty of fluids to avoid getting light-headed.

No problem.

Unless the day of the blood drive turns into a frantic mess and your ride knocks on your office door before you have time for breakfast, lunch, or your mid-morning snack.

I grabbed a handful of Hershey Kisses for the ride over and prayed to whatever god was listening to get me through this unscathed.

I was hoping to watch someone else donate before it was my turn, but no such luck. I ended up at the front of the line and took my seat, surrounded by twelve other lawyers from my firm.

The nurse hooked me up easily and as the blood started to flow, I laughed at myself for worrying. When the bag was full, another nurse handed me a package of Oreos and a bottle of cranberry juice and told me sit for a few minutes. Thrilled with the snack selection, I thought that maybe I would make donating blood a habit from now on.

The buzzing in my ears was so dull at first that I thought I was imagining it.

But then it grew louder, drowning out the chatter that filled the Red Cross trailer, and bringing with it a wave of nausea that knocked me back in my chair. I tried to lift my arm to get a nurse's attention, but before I had the chance my vision grayed around the edges and I felt myself falling back into the black.

My feet were the first things I saw when I drifted awake.

Confused, I slid my eyes around trying to get my bearings and took in the scene. I didn't have the energy to lift up my head, so all I could do was lay there covered in ice packs and drops of the cranberry juice I had spilled, my legs straight up in the air and my skirt inching dangerously high, as all the other lawyers gathered around me, their faces masks of concern.

And think about how much I wished I was wearing pants.

The Day My Career Finally Started

It was 4pm. I was still in the office.

Every few minutes someone would pass my desk and give me a "why the hell are you still here?" look that was part astonishment and part pity. I was feeling a fair amount of both.

It was my last day at work.

Two weeks before I had accepted an offer from a law firm and promptly given notice, relishing the prospect of ten low-stakes days of coming in late, leaving early and two hour lunches.

But reality was far less glamorous.

I got the job I would be leaving seventeen months after I graduated from law school, and I graduated from law school two months after the Bear Stearns collapse and four months before Lehman Brothers went bankrupt. Not a good time to be a new lawyer in New York City if you aspire to more than doc review.

A big investment bank was starting a private wealth management group, and I would be a lawyer on the trusts & estates side. It was the job I had been waiting for, with only one catch. Since the group was new, they couldn't hire both a junior lawyer and a secretary, so for awhile at least, I would have to be both.

I was grateful for the job, and didn't ask a lot of questions about how long this dual role would last. I just jumped into the position, eager to finally be a lawyer.

Only I wasn't.

What legal work there was was handled by my boss while she lectured me how to answer the phone, file to her satisfaction, and properly format the agenda for our weekly meeting.

Every now and then I would do some legal research, but the bulk of my time was spent as a secretary and I was too busy worrying about the legal job market to stand up for myself and ask to do the work I had been trained to do.

The months dragged on. Every time my boss dropped a business card on my desk to add to her contacts I fantasized about throwing it in her face. Every time the phone rang I considered not picking it up, something I had been warned never to do.

So when the law firm came calling, I jumped at the opportunity.

After I gave notice I was handed a list a mile long of everything I had to finish before I left. So instead of spending my last two weeks shopping and lunching, I spent it writing a manual for my successor on how to do this legal job that contained virtually no legal work.

Which was how I found myself sitting in front of my computer at 4pm on my last day, instead of having drinks to celebrate my fancy new job.

I shifted in my chair and began the final section of the manual. As I typed the words "booking a flight," the stupidity of one lawyer instructing another how to properly book a flight for a third hit me.

I was done.

I shut down my computer for the last time, and headed for the door, leaving the manual unfinished.

I had a career to start.

Two Years Later. The Universe Was Right

Two years ago today I walked through the doors of my law firm for the first time, anxiety-ridden and scared to death. I had never really considered a Big Law career, but I all of a sudden found myself a lawyer in one of the biggest law firms at all.

It took me almost six months to get used to life here but finally, aided by a fabulous office-mate who became my very first work friend, it started to feel comfortable and, dare I say, like normal.

And today. Today I write this sitting at my big desk in my big office, doing good work. Work I like. Work I am proud to be able to do.

Sometimes I look around and wonder how I got here. Here, to this giant firm in the middle of Midtown Manhattan, when I had decided long ago to build my career in smaller places, along a decidedly less glamorous path.

But in the past two years I have learned that we can plan and plan all we want, but that sometimes the universe has other things in store for us. And for me, the universe decided that I should be here, in this place.

And you know what?

The universe was right.

This is Thirty

On January 3rd, I turned thirty. I wrote a long post on that day, ruminating on all that I had lived and learned in the decade between twenty and thirty, and the ways that I had grown and changed from the time I was a college sophomore. And now, seven months into thirty, I find myself thinking about all the ways that thirty is both different - and very much the same - as twenty-nine.

This is thirty.

Thirty is three decades of living. It is the knowledge that while there is a lot behind me, there is much more - and a lot of the best things - still to come.

Thirty is finding my first gray hair and wondering how long it will be before more follow.

Thirty is three years of marriage. It is good and comfortable with the life that we are building together, but it is also being married to someone who can still surprise in the best way possible. Thirty is looking at my engagement ring daily with a smile and a warm rush of memories, but being equally thrilled at the wedding band that now serves as its mate.

Thirty is thinking about the family that we want to have, and what we want it to look like. It is realizing that we can plan all we want, but that sometimes things are out of our hands. Thirty is being ok with that.

Thirty is owning my first house in the suburbs instead of renting a tiny apartment in Manhattan. It is buying my first car. It is having big closets, a dream kitchen, a deck, and a room meant just for reading. Thirty is settling in to what will hopefully be my forever neighborhood, and joining a synagogue for the very first time. It is meeting new friends and carving a place for ourselves in a community.

Thirty is sleeping late on Saturdays, drinking iced coffee every morning, watching 30 different TV shows regularly, and reading romance novels.

Thirty is running my second half marathon with a third half and also a full on the horizon. It is a long run every Sunday on the Bronx River Pathway and short runs two days a week at sunrise. Thirty is fifteen minutes of yoga in the backyard to greet the day, and wondering if this is the year that I will finally start taking spin classes. Thirty is learning to enjoy exercise, and how to be healthy in a way that lasts forever. Thirty is knowing that I will always have to work at these things, but thirty is also knowing that it's worth it.

Thirty is finally feeling like my career has begun. It is being happy and comfortable in the job that I have and in the work that I'm doing. Thirty is working on this blog, and feeling like I have found my voice. Thirty is a deep need to write my own story and to share my words with the world. It is knowing that there is a book inside of me somewhere, and deciding that the time has come to write it.

Thirty is lucky enough to have a few friends - the soul-deep kind - who know me all the way through. Thirty is knowing that even though my parents and my sisters live far away, I have family here in New York because this is where my friends are. Thirty is knowing that we are lucky to have each other, and that we always will.

Thirty is trading e-mails, recipes, accessories, phone calls and FaceTimes with my sisters. It is being proud of them and the lives and families that they are building. It is knowing that no matter where we live, and how far away we might be, we are each other's missing pieces. Thirty is knowing that this will never change. Thirty is knowing that we only get closer as we get older, and as time marches on.

Thirty is happy.

This is thirty. I am thirty.

Five Years Ago Yesterday

Five years ago yesterday, at 7:15 am, I shot up in bed, my heart pounding and my stomach a tight ball of fear.

I jumped out of bed, stumbling on the blankets that had tangled around my legs during my sweaty anxiety dreams, and grabbed my Wills notes from my desk, frantically scattering pages until I found the one I was looking for.

New York Will execution requirements. Two witnesses. A notary. Everyone in the same room.

The following day was the first day of the New York Bar Exam. Monday was supposed to be a rest day. It said so right there on the bar review schedule. A day to let our brains absorb all the law we had been cramming into them for ten weeks.

But I didn't want to leave my room. I hadn't been farther than two feet away from my study materials in almost three months, and the idea of leaving to meet friends for the early movie and dinner that I had planned was not at all appealing. I wanted to stay with my notes and my books where it was safe. Where I could look something up if I forgot it.

But the schedule said to take some time off, and the schedule was gospel. So I shoved my review notebook into my bag went to meet my friends.

But I couldn't settle. Despite my friends' best efforts to talk about anything but the impending test, during dinner I was listing elements of torts in my head. During the movie I was trying to remember the difference between robbery and theft. And by the time I left my friends, my deliberately placid veneer had started to melt, leaving behind a wild-eyed mass of terror and nerves.

I meant to go home, but instead I found myself at David's apartment, twenty blocks away. He wasn't there, so I let myself in and sat down on the couch, careful to keep my head still. Sure that any sudden moves would cause all the information packed in there to fall out and scatter all over the floor.

When he got home, he found me sitting in silence. He asked me what was wrong and for the first time I said the words that I hadn't yet allowed myself to even think.

"What if I fail?"

I waited for him to assure me that I wouldn't fail. That I wouldn't end up in this exact same place six months from now. But he didn't. Instead he simply said,

"You're ready."

And then he sent me home.

I got into bed, sure that I wouldn't sleep. But as I pulled the covers up I felt the exhaustion that I had fed with caffeine, anxiety and adrenaline for nearly ten weeks take hold.

And for the first time since the first day of bar review I wasn't furiously listing elements of crimes or the rules of evidentiary proceedings. As I drifted off to sleep, my mind was blissfully empty but for one single word.

Tomorrow.

Breakfast is the Most Important Meal of the Day

I am a lawyer. A trusts and estates lawyer to be exact.

Every morning I get up and I head to my office at my big, big law firm in Manhattan, and it is there that I spend most of my hours.

And most of the time, I really like it. I like the firm where I work. I like the people with whom I work. I like the actual work that I do. 

I realize that I am incredibly lucky in all of this like, as there are a great many lawyers who are not nearly as happy in their jobs as I am in mine.

Truth be told, I never imagined myself in a huge law firm like this one. It was always this kind of law for me, but I figured I would practice in a boutique firm, which most trusts & estates lawyers do, and besides, those huge firms scared me in a major way. But life rarely turns out the way we think it will, which really is part of the fun. Because of a 2008, mid-economic meltdown law school graduation, my post-law school path was a winding one, but when Big Law came ringing exactly two years ago, I answered the call.

And even though it was a little scary and a lot intimidating for my first few months here, I have since gotten used to it, and there are some lovely perks to working in a firm of this size. Oh, I could go on and on about the beautiful office, the smart and interesting people I get to meet, the book club I'm a part of filled with women lawyers, and even our summer outing to the Central Park Zoo, but I won't. 

Because the very best part of working here actually has nothing to do with any of those things. The best part about work here is breakfast.

Yes. Breakfast.

My firm has a cafeteria, and they serve the best breakfast you could imagine. 

Feel like scrambled eggs, or an omelet with the fillings of your choice? They'll make it for you while you watch.

Hungry for a bagel? They'll toast it for you, and you can choose your spread.

There are muffins and donuts, an oatmeal bar, and all kinds of fresh fruit ready to fuel all the lawyers and other firm employees that walk through the cafeteria doors. 

Most people take their breakfast back to their offices to get started on the day, but the cafeteria also boasts many tables, and TVs that broadcast all the 24 hour news networks, in case you feel like a bit of relaxation before facing the day.

Make no mistake. We work hard. We come in early and sometimes we have to stay late. We put out fires, take calls from clients, and try to solve the many, many issues that arise over the course of our days.

But we are lucky enough to do it all fueled by a really spectacular breakfast. And that's not nothing.

How You Know It's Friday

Office lights off. Lamp on. 

Desk buried under piles of paper.

It's Friday.

Dear Marissa Mayer

You really stepped in it, didn't you?

By now the entire world has read about your edict at Yahoo! that all employees have to work in the office. That you will no longer allow anyone to work from home, and that any employees currently working remotely choose between returning to the office or leaving the company.

Look, I understand why you did it. I get that you are trying to resuscitate a dying company and you think that having employees physically present will help do that. Or maybe you think that this new rule will help foster an atmosphere of cohesion and creativity that has been missing at Yahoo! as of late. And the truth is that in a perfect world, your new rule seems like a compelling one. But we don't live in a perfect world, and I am afraid that what you are proposing will do far more harm than good.

I know that you are just trying to do your job, and you don't mean to make a statement on working parents and working women and the role that feminism plays in our places of business, but that is exactly what you are doing.

Last year you were criticized after you announced that you would only take a two week maternity leave after having your first child before beginning your tenure at Yahoo! and that you would be working at home during those weeks. And while I, and many others, thought that you were crazy, feminism is about choice, and it was certainly your choice to decide the length and character of your leave.

But what you are doing by terminating all flex-time and remote working arrangements with your employees is effectively removing choice from the equation, and making it infinitely harder for your employees to achieve the same success that you yourself enjoy.

It makes us think that you just don't understand the pressure that normal people face. Like you don't get that balancing work and life and family and kids is hard.

Because it doesn't seem like it has been particularly hard for you.

With endless financial resources, you are able to hire all the baby-sitters and nannies that you may want or need to help make sure that your child is safe and well-cared for. Because you are in charge you were able to build a private nursery near your office so that you can spend time with your baby and be in the office at the same time.

I bet there are plenty of dedicated Yahoo! employees who would love to build a nursery in their office so that they can keep their kids close. Since that is quite obviously not an option for the average working parent, instead they decided to create a flexible work arrangement so that they could be good employees and good parents all at the same time. And your policy just made that tenuous balance even shakier, if such a thing was even possible.

It's like you're telling your employees that you won't pay them to work at home, but that you will pay to bring your own home to work. How is that fair?

And it isn't just about the working parents. It's about anyone who has ever been sick. Or who has an ill parent or family member. Or who needs to wait at home one day because the washing machine repairman said that he would be there between one and five. Or who has a driveway covered in two feet of snow and completely impassable.

Life is all about balance. We all have our attention divided among a thousand different things all the time. We try to be good employees and good spouses and good friends and good parents. And sometimes, we need just a little bit of help. A little flexibility, if you will.

As a lawyer in a big Manhattan firm, I know firsthand that flexible work arrangements are not perfect. I know that there will be people who abuse them, and people for whom they just don't work. But I also know that there are plenty of people who manage them successfully, Plenty of people who use working from home as an opportunity to do good work, save time commuting, pick their kids up from school, be a physical presence in their children's lives, care for sick parents and spouses, and then open up their computer and get right back to work once the dishes are done and everyone is settled for the night.

Study after study has shown that flexibility matters to employees. That these kinds of work-from-home arrangements translate into happier and more loyal employees.

And I know that you aren't trying to make a statement on the benefits or pitfalls of a flex-time arrangement, but you are smart woman Marissa Mayer. What, exactly, did you think was going to happen?

I fear that this decision of yours is a giant step back to a time when working parents had to sneak out of the office early if they needed to pick up their kids. That it layers on even more guilt about the work-life balance at a time when working women are striving with all our might to find solutions that lighten our guilty load.

I understand that you are first and foremost a CEO trying to save a company. And if you do manage to do that, but end up with a building full of employees who are good at showing up on time but little else, what is it, exactly that you will have saved?

This Life of Mine

I realize I haven't spent much time on this blog talking about how I spend my days. I mean, of course you all know by now about my early morning runs, my daily commute into Manhattan, and my addiction to TV. and you know that I'm a lawyer, but I haven't written a whole lot about my actual job. About what I do when I get to my office and sit at my desk.

Last week, as happens about four times a year, my office mailman arrived with a stack of new tax codes and regulations. These are the kinds of books that need frequent updating - you wouldn't want to dig into hours of tax research only to discover that you were using outdated codes. So when I got back to my office after a meeting, one of my chairs looked like that.

As as I sat down and started to work on a project, my gaze kept falling on that chair. And it occurred to me that anyone who walked into my office and saw those books would assume that my practice is dry, boring, and monotonous because, tax codes.

But the truth is, it is anything but.

I can't really remember a time that I didn't want to be a lawyer. I'm not sure why I decided on the law, since no one in my immediate family really practices law, but once I settled on it I never wavered. I charted my course through college with an eye towards law school, took the LSATs, filled out all the applications, and the August after I graduated, I moved into a dorm in New York City and law school began.

But even though I knew it was the law I wanted, I wasn't sure what kind. I spent my first year taking the courses that all first year students took. And even though I loved the learning - and even the studying - I wasn't wild about the subjects. Civil procedure bored me, I found contracts impossible to understand, and criminal law and constitutional law probably would have been interesting if the professors hadn't been so incredibly awful. The only classes that I really loved were legal writing and Torts. And since there is no practice called "legal writing," and I had no aspirations to put my face on a billboard advertising class action lawsuits for medical malpractice, I found myself at a bit of a loss.

And my grades reflected it. I didn't do badly my first year, but I didn't do well enough to be of any interest to the big firms that swarm law school campuses every fall to interview new second year students. And the truth is, that was fine with me. I knew that whatever path I took would be a little unconventional, and maybe a little more complicated, but I didn't mind. Complexity has never scared me.

But at the beginning of my second year, something happened. On the second day of school I found myself sitting in a class called Wills, Trusts & Estates. I registered for it because everyone said it was good for the bar exam. Most of the class was third year students who were far closer to the bar exam than I was, but the class fit into my schedule and I figured I might as well get started on those "good for the bar" classes while I had the time.

And I am forever grateful for whatever twist of fate put me in that class that most law students put off until their third year. Because I loved it, and I understood it in that deep and complex way that means whatever you are studying is right and good. It didn't hurt that the professor was fabulous - the best I had in my three years. But for the first time since law school began, I felt like maybe I had found my calling.

I ended the semester with an A+ - my first ever - and a meeting with that excellent professor who helped me chart my course for the next three semesters. During the eighteen months that followed I took classes in advanced estate planning, income tax, estate tax, family law, and various other related subjects - A's all around. And I had an internship in the trusts & estates group of one of New York's massive law firms helping the two partners with complex estate planning for some serious high net worth clients - and I was really good at it.

My career since I graduated almost five years ago has taken some interesting turns, mostly due to graduating in 2008, just a few months before the entire economy imploded, but a year and a half ago I returned to that massive law firm that gave me my first internship, this time as a full time lawyer. One of their associates was leaving the firm, and the partner I worked for during law school tracked me down and recruited me back here.

And staring at that pile of tax codes on my chair, I found myself thinking about what it is about this practice I like so much, and why pouring through those books isn't boring for me.

It's because of the stories.

In my work, my clients are people. They are men and women with kids, and parents, and relatives, and stories. I don't work for faceless companies, or defend big businesses in court. I work for families. I sit with them, and I listen to their tales, and I help them plan their estates in a way that makes their lives just a little bit easier. I work for CEOs, family business owners, stay-at-home moms and dads, authors, artists, and, one time, a 93 year old Holocaust survivor with a story I wish I could tell, because it is breathtaking. We are there for them through births, deaths, marriages and divorces. We help them through the best and the worst of what life throws their way, and, just maybe, help lighten the load a bit.

Because I love to write stories, I love to listen to stories, and I get to do that each and every day.

There are times that I dream about writing full time. About sitting at home with my keyboard and my thoughts, and devoting all of my energy to the books that I know are in my head somewhere. But right now, that is not meant to be.

I have come to understand and appreciate that this life of mine is the one I was meant to have. That the series of steps that got me here were not an accident, but rather were fated somehow.

Right now, I am meant to be here. Here at my desk, surrounded by tax codes, listening to stories, writing stories, practicing law, practicing life.

And I am happy.

The Shoe Shine

Life in Manhattan is not easy. I learned this lesson over and over again during my nearly eight years in the city. Between the lightning fast pace, crowded subways, tiny apartment living, and hugely inflated prices, city living is not for the faint of heart.

But there are things that the city offers that make the life just a little less difficult.

Take 24 hour delivery for example. And I'm not just talking about from the hundreds of restaurants all around the island. For a price, you can get literally anything delivered to the door of your apartment at any hour of the day or night. From prescriptions, to clothes, to movies and popcorn, there is a service for that.

Or 24 hour grocery stores on every corner. I tend to do my cooking and baking later at night, and also forget ingredients with a startling frequency. No big deal though when all I had to do is throw a coat over my sweatpants and dirty t-shirt and run down the street.

Or winter weather gear. In some places, forgetting your hat or gloves at home in frigid temperatures means that you will walk around for the rest of the day with red ears and frozen fingers. Not so in Manhattan. Just stop at one of the street vendors that line Manhattan's avenues, and for a mere five dollars your extremities will be warm once more.

I, myself took advantage of these offerings many times during my tenure in this city. And now that I no longer live here, when I find myself out of vanilla at ten o'clock at night or when I forget to pick up my dry cleaning, I miss some of those conveniences of city life.

But there is one convenience of Manhattan living that I never availed myself of during my time here in the city.

The Shoe Shine.

The Shoe Shine first came to my attention during my first week at my first job out of law school.

At eleven o'clock every morning a girl walked through the office with a rolling suitcase, and stopped at each open door asking the men if they would like a shoe shine. And the men would remove their shoes, hand them to the girl along with a twenty dollar bill, and sit for the next 20 minutes in their socks as she opened her suitcase, and proceeded to shine the shoes right there on the floor while the men waited. And for the next hour, the smell of show polish permeated the entire office.

I have had a couple of jobs since then, and they have all been in different buildings. But the one common thread running through them all is the existence of the shoe shine girl.

It seems that men who work in Manhattan have really dull shoes.

Well. I don't live in Manhattan anymore, but I still work here. And every morning I take the train into the city and arrive at Grand Central Station to start my workday. And on the very first day of my commute when I got to Grand Central, what do I see, but a shoe shine station, that one up there, right in the middle of the walkway to the 47th Street exit for people who aren't lucky enough to have a shoe shine girl in the office. It was 8:30 in the morning, and five banker-types were sitting in the chairs and reading some financial paper or another as men scurried around shining their shoes.

And I guess it just strikes me as funny that in this era of technological superiority where there is an app for everything and we spend half our lives immersed in one screen or another, men still sit up in high chairs, reading newspapers, having their shoes shined as the world rushes by them.

Kind of dreamy and old fashioned, right?

Illness and an Interview

Tongues of nausea curled in my stomach and cold sweat slid down my back as I smiled thinly at the senior partner sitting across the table from me, trying to give the impression of a cool, confident attorney, rather than the impression of someone who desperately needed to find a bathroom to throw up in.

I had thought it was a stroke of luck that I called in sick to work on the very day the partner requested an interview.

It was a week before that she called me at my office. The trusts & estates group I had interned with during my third year of law school was losing their associate, and she tracked me down to ask if I was interested in returning to the firm. I had just started to consider changing jobs, so I was intrigued, and sent along the resume and writing sample that she requested. She told me that I would be a bit of a non-traditional hire, since I was coming from the world of private wealth management rather than a law firm, and it might take her a couple of days to get approval to bring me in for an interview.

When six days passed without word, I figured she had moved on to candidates with shinier pedigrees than I possessed, and I decided to move on to other things in my head, starting with a most delicious business lunch with some colleagues at the stately Four Seasons Hotel restaurant in Midtown Manhattan.

The seventh day after her call was a Friday. I had woken up at four in the morning with an upset stomach and a low fever, and decided not to go to work.

I got her e-mail at eight that morning telling me that she would like to interview me and since time was of the essence, could I please come in at four that very afternoon. I responded that of course I could, and mentally patted myself on the back for calling in sick, thereby avoiding the need for an awkward excuse to leave work early to go interview for another job. Maybe I was a tiny bit pale and nauseous from whatever virus was making its way through my system, but I could power through it.

Or maybe not.

I got sicker with every hour that passed. My fever crept higher, and my trips to the bathroom got more frequent. All the water that I drank first thing in the morning in an effort to flush out the virus came back up, unpleasantly, and I couldn't keep anything down. By two thirty I was curled in a fetal position on the bathroom floor thinking that I would rather be dead than move a single muscle.

But with one hour before I had to leave for the interview that I certainly couldn't cancel only six hours after I scheduled it, I didn't have much of a choice.

Sitting on the floor of the shower, I washed my hair and did my best to stay upright as I got out the blow dryer. I dug a suit out of my closet and put on a loose blouse that covered the back of the skirt that I only zipped up halfway to avoid further aggravating my increasingly unpredictable stomach. Against my better judgment, I dry swallowed two Tylenol in an attempt to bring my fever down, and crept out of my apartment and into a cab.

By the time I got to the firm a mere twenty blocks from my apartment I was exhausted from the effort it took to just keep my head up. I checked in at reception and headed straight to the bathroom to try and put myself back together. I mopped up the mascara that had pooled under my eyes, wiped the sweat off the back of my neck, rolled some gloss on my dry, cracked lips, and prayed to whatever god would listen to just help me through the next hour.

By the time the partner picked me up at reception and led me into a conference room, the Tylenol I had taken was threatening to come back up, and I realized that applying flavored lip gloss when I was in such a delicate state was a huge mistake. I did my best to answer her questions while staying as still as possible, and  smiling through clenched teeth to keep from throwing up all over the table.

When the interview was over I ran straight to the bathroom and then home where I got into bed and didn't get out again for three days. When, by day three, my symptoms showed no signs of improvement I went to the doctor who did a whole battery of tests to figure out what was wrong with me.

A week later and still sick, I got two calls on the very same day.

I had Salmonella, courtesy of that lunch at the Four Seasons.

And I got the job.

An Ode to TV

63 inches of awesome

On this blog, I have used thousands of words in homage to my love of reading, romance novels, and writing. My bookshelves are stacked with hundreds of romance novels, stacks of mysteries, and even the occasional non-fiction for when the mood strikes. I spend many happy hours sitting on the couch in my new family room reading page after page. And I spend many happy (and often frustrating) hours writing words on this blog. And I love all of those. Words have been an important part of me for as long as I can remember and to be able to read them and write them is a privilege for which I am incredibly grateful.

But I am a woman of many interests.

So it is not just reading and writing that consume my extra-curricular hours. There is something else near and dear to me that I don't spend nearly as much time talking about on the pages of this blog. My TV watching habits. And I use the word habit lightly, because what it really is, is a full-blown obsession matched only by my zeal to collect all the books Nora Roberts has ever penned.

I have always loved TV, but I can pinpoint exactly when TV watching stopped being an enjoyable event and started to become a passion complete with charts scheduling my shows, anxiety about missing episodes, and a full slate of programming year round.

It was 2005. The fall. College graduation was behind me, and I was about a month into my first year of law school with all the stress, sleepless nights and competition that entailed. I was living in my law school's dorm in the East Village and the air practically vibrated with intensity and barely concealed nerves. Needless to say, I only lasted a year in the dorm before I moved on to the wonder of the Upper West Side. But it was in that dorm room filled with big, scary books that I began escaping into TV.

For years and years I escaped through books. And during my first year in law school I still did, and regularly. But with all the tension that law school wrought, I needed something more. And I found that something more in a 13 inch television that sat on top of my miniature dresser in an equally miniature bedroom.

It started off innocently, as obsessions often do. I figured law school was no excuse not to keep up with the shows that I already watched, so I made sure that I was always home in time for my four or five regulars. And then one night when I couldn't settle down I discovered back-to-back re-runs of The Nanny, which quickly became appointment television for me. Then I decided to re-watch all the seasons of The West Wing in preparation for the final season that had just begun. And it was fall, so I figured I would surf around and try to pick up some new shows too. Some new shows became approximately eight new shows.

Before long I had far too much TV on my schedule to watch it when it was actually on, so I called Time Warner Cable, and three days later a delightful technician arrived to install my very first DVR box so I could start recording my TV to watch whenever I wanted. And after I started watching with a DVR I noticed a funny thing happen. My grades started to rise in proportion to the amount of TV I was watching, but not the way you think. The more TV I watched, the higher my grades were. I was on to something for sure. So I continued to study and I continued to watch, and I got my very first A+, and I was thrilled with myself.

When I was studying for finals at the end of my second year (and also catching up on the entire First Season of Brothers & Sisters, having just discovered it that spring), two things happened simultaneously to kick my TV habit up a couple of notches. The first was that I discovered TV blogs. Now, not only could I watch my favorite shows, but I could read about them too. I immersed myself in spoilers, and recaps, and news about renewals, cancellations, and new shows on the horizon.

And the second was that I met David, and in him I found my TV equal. I picked up some of his shows, he picked up some of mine, and we discovered some new ones together. In the early stages of our relationship, where most couples would go out, we often stayed in. With take-out, a couch, his giant TV, and each other we had exactly everything we needed. And by the time we got married and moved in together we were watching more than thirty shows between us. There was no way that all this TV could fit on a single DVR, and we decided that when it came to our shows we were absolutely above compromise, so our tiny Manhattan apartment boasted two plasma televisions, each complete with their own DVR. His and hers, and it suited us just fine. We own a house now, but our TV watching habits haven't changed at all. Each and every night you can still find us in front of our shows, sometimes together and sometimes apart, content down to the tips of our toes.  I sometimes wonder how it would have worked had I met someone who didn't share my passion for TV. I think the answer is, it just wouldn't have.

Sometimes people ask me how I have time for it all. A full time job, a blog, running, a serious romance novel habit and a TV obsession. I say, you make time for what's important. I guess I could be spending my time learning more law, or volunteering, or curing cancer or something like that, but Grey's Anatomy and Scandal come back from winter hiatus tonight and I love me some Shonda Rhimes, so I'm going to be pretty busy.

Thoughts at Thirty

Today is my thirtieth birthday.

Ten years ago I turned twenty. On my twentieth birthday, no one was thirty. Thirty seemed like the destination at the very end of a particularly long road trip. A destination so far away that I couldn't possibly imagine ever reaching it, or what it would feel like when I finally did.

I was a sophomore in college when I turned twenty, living on the fourth floor of a big dorm that was filled with friends I had made during my freshman year. The year I turned twenty was the year I started to feel like I had finally found my place. I had friends I loved, friends who understood me. Friends to stay up late with, and talk to, and have dance parties to crazy songs with. Friends to study with and eat junk food with, and explore our little world with. I had classes that fascinated me, and professors who challenged me. I had enough college behind me that it felt comfortable and right, and enough college left in front of me that I wasn't yet thinking about what came after.

The year I turned twenty was the year that I had my first real boyfriend. And I like to think that, until we broke up the year I turned turned twenty-two, I learned all the things that you are supposed to learn from your first boyfriend. I learned what real love is supposed to look like (because this was most certainly not it). I learned how to be independent and retain my sense of self in a relationship (mostly because I didn't). And I learned to recognize when a relationship had run its course and when it is time to say goodbye (because I let it drag on far too long).

The year I turned twenty-two was the year I started preparing for what would come next. I spend a summer in Washington D.C. as a constitutional law intern for the Anti-Defamation League, I bought big scary books with LSAT written on the cover and started studying for my future, and I raced to the mail room every day after my 2:00 class to check for the letter that would tell me where that future would be. And with shaking hands one cold late winter day, I opened the one that did. And during a nostalgic, tear-soaked weekend, I graduated from college, and holding the hands of my very best friends, I moved to New York City to start law school. And I learned for the first time that it is possible to be, at the same time, incredibly excited for what lies ahead and impossibly sad for what will be left behind.

When I was twenty-three, I six months in to what would end up being a nearly eight year tenure in Manhattan. And during that first year I learned that I could live anywhere in the world as long as I had my friends with me. I learned how to answer questions about reading I hadn't done. I learned how to walk twenty city blocks in heels. I learned that I could, in fact, study for twelve hours straight without dropping dead, and I learned how to be ok with bad grades when they came. I found a Steelers bar in lower Manhattan and was there watching when the Steelers hoisted their first Lombardi Trophy in twenty-six years. I discovered that I could watch a ton of TV, read lots of romance novels, and still be a good law student, and I discovered that I really like to cook. And I watched Sister K walk down the aisle to marry her incomparable man, and in the two of them learned the real meaning of partnership.

I was a second year law student when I turned twenty-four. That year I got my first A+, decided that Trusts & Estates law was the practice for me, had my very first real law firm job, and went on my first date with the boy I would marry. The year I was twenty-four I learned how to "do" law school. I learned that love - real love - can come when you least expect it, and that it is possible to "just know" in the snap of a finger.

From age twenty-five to age twenty-seven I got an internship that would lead, almost five years later, to the job I have now. I graduated from law school with honors, passed the bar exam, watched as the financial world melted down, and saw the Steelers win another Superbowl. I learned how to be unemployed for awhile, and then how to work in a job that I hated. I learned what it feels like to be laid off, how to have a job for awhile that had nothing to do with my chosen career, how to interview for a position that I really, really wanted, and what it felt like to finally get it. I started to learn that I really enjoyed my own company, and I learned to be comfortable and confident in the decisions I was making.

Late one night, two months after my twenty-seventh birthday the boy I would marry proposed to me on a website, and we started a whirlwind seven months of parties, planning and anticipation. And on a gorgeous fall day of that very same year I stood at the top of my own aisle, and, surrounded by family and friends, walked into my future. That year I learned that it is not flowers, caterers, and dresses that make a wedding unforgettable, but rather the people who gather to celebrate. I learned how to live - and live well - in a tiny New York City apartment. On a whim I signed up for a half-marathon and when I started training I learned that Central Park is my favorite place in the world.

A few weeks after my twenty-eighth birthday my cousins, my sisters and I held each other close as we said goodbye to our grandma - my mom's mom - the woman who gave us life, and love, and laughter and sparkly memories. I ran double digits for the first time, and I suffered a stress fracture that would keep me out of the race for which I had trained so hard. I cried happy tears and danced at Sister L's wedding, I started a brand new job, I watched the Steelers lose a Superbowl, and I celebrated when Sister K gave us all a new baby girl to love. In my twenty-eighth year I learned that I could get through anything as long as I had my family close. I learned that I could survive on nothing but ginger ale and crackers for two weeks after an epic battle with salmonella, and I learned to say yes when an important career move came my way, even if the job was something I thought I would never, ever do.

I started this blog a few weeks after my twenty-ninth birthday, and quickly knew that I had found my place. I started training for - and crossed the finish line of - my first half marathon, and promptly signed up for two more. We bought our first house and started making plans to leave NYC. We made it through Hurricane Sandy, moved into our new home - that was still a construction zone - and started to get to know our new neighborhood. This past year I learned that leaving Manhattan was far more difficult than I ever imagined it would be. I learned that moving is impossibly hard even when the move is good and right. I learned that writing fulfills me in a way that little else can, and that there is a big and completely incredible community of bloggers out there that has helped me, and taught me, and befriended me in the vast cyber universe. I learned that I could live for almost two months without a kitchen, and I learned once again that I can live in complete chaos as long as my romance novels are organized on their shelves.

And today. Today I am thirty. And when I woke up this morning I thought I would feel different - older somehow - but I don't. I feel the same as I felt yesterday, and hopefully the same as I will feel tomorrow. And I am incredibly happy to be where I am, in this place, living this good life with the people closest to me. And now I hit the road for another destination far in the distance that I can't possibly imagine ever reaching, or what it will feel like when I do. But if the next ten years are anything like the last, I know that there really is nothing to worry about at all.

Lazy Weekend

One pretty awesome bromance

I had grand plans this past weekend. Since our kitchen is so close to being done, I was going to wield my cleaning supplies and dusting cloths and attack the inside of the cabinets so that I could finally start unpacking all of the kitchen boxes that have been living in my dining room this past month. But unfortunately, those plans fell by the wayside.

See, over Thanksgiving I was struck by the plague. Sometime between when I got to Pittsburgh that Wednesday night and when I left on Sunday I caught a cold from my one year old niece. I felt fine until late Sunday night, when I got a little shaky. I figured I was just tired from all the festivities of the weekend, and I would be find with a good night sleep. How wrong I was.

Monday morning I felt like death, and whatever I had managed to catch got progressively worse every day of last week. Why are the sicknesses we catch from babies always so much worse than the ones that we contract from anyone else? Every morning last week I considered calling in sick to work, but I am a trusts and estates lawyer, and it is December, which means it is also our busiest season. So every day I dragged myself to the city and managed to get through the day.

By Friday I was ready to fall over. So as soon as I got home from work Friday afternoon I put on sweats, parked myself on the couch, and it was there I made my nest until it was time to go to sleep last night. Except for an ill-advised load of laundry or two yesterday morning, I didn't move from the couch. All weekend. And it worked, because this morning I feel much better, if not completely back to normal.

Anyway, a weekend on the couch meant lots of books on Saturday, and lots of TV on Sunday. And the highlight of my Sunday? The Steelers had the 4:25 game, and it was on TV in New York, which doesn't happen very often. And it was magic.

I could rehash all the stats, and talk about how improbable the win was with a third string quarterback and an ailing offensive line, but instead I direct your attention to the picture above.

That just says it all, doesn't it?

HERE. WE. GO.

Blind Date: Part II

The bus was late.

That irritating detail stuck in my craw as the bus, which finally showed up seven minutes after its scheduled arrival time - rolled down Columbus Avenue.

It probably would have been faster to walk the ten blocks, but I just didn't feel like getting there sweaty, frizzy haired, and out of breath. I may have been a mere week away from law school finals, jittery from too much caffeine and not enough food, but I had standards after all.

I got off the bus and as I walked the two avenues to the cafe I forced myself into date mode.

He was leaning against the ubiquitous Manhattan scaffolding in front of the restaurant. It was a busy evening, and he was not the only one standing there. I asked myself later how I knew who he was. I had never seen a picture of him - I was too wrapped up in my finals haze to do the requisite Facebook/Google stalking. But somehow I knew.

He looked up as I approached. His eyes met mine for the first time, and there was this thing in my stomach. This feeling. I swear to god that my heart beat an extra time or two, and I thought that blond hair and blue eyes had never looked so good.

Thoughts of retribution for my little sister for forcing this blind date on me slipped from my mind. This guy was hot.

He introduced himself, and I was suddenly shy. And I have never been shy. Introverted, yes. But shy, never.

We sat at a table outside, right under a heat lamp the cafe helpfully provided for the unpredictable April weather. Wrapped in a cozy cocoon of warmth, we ordered cake and coffee.

I panicked for a minute when the waitress took the menus away. It was at this point in most of these dates that the evening started to go downhill. Without the obligatory "what looks good on the menu" conversation, there was often nothing else to talk about.

There was a beat of silence while we sized each other up. I waited for the first date questions to start, and prepared my first date answers.

And then.

"I saw the craziest thing today," he said.

Momentarily caught off guard that there was no question mark at the end of his sentence, all I could do was nod.

"I was walking down Broadway, and I saw a man get hit by a bus. Not a fast moving bus or anything, and the man was OK. But I actually saw a man get hit by a bus. We use the phrase 'get hit by a bus' all the time, but you wonder how many people really do get hit by buses. But it happened today, and I saw it."

Something about this story struck me as so hilarious that I started laughing and couldn't stop. Not polite first date laughter. Stomach hurting, tears streaming kind of laughter. I had to wave down the waitress to ask for an extra napkin to wipe my eyes, and from there, the conversation flowed.

I wish I could remember everything we talked about. I don't. I wish I could look back and replay the entire date in my mind like a movie. I can't. I don't remember all the specifics, but I remember the feelings. And I remember feeling like this was someone worth getting to know.

The cafe was exactly halfway between our respective apartments, so when we got up to leave I prepared myself for the slightly awkward good-bye on a busy Manhattan street. But instead, he walked me home.

For ten blocks we walked and talked and laughed some more. And I wished that we could walk forever. In front of my building we said a goodbye befitting a really good first date, and I watched as he walked away. Before he crossed the street, he turned around to flash a last smile and wave. And I felt that thing in my stomach once more.

The piles of study materials stacked on every available surface surprised me when I let myself into my apartment. I had forgotten that they were there.

Figuring I could put in another hour before it was time for bed, I changed my clothes and prepared to buckle down.

But I didn't read a word of my notes the rest of the night.

Instead I just lay on my bed, dreaming.

This is a follow up to last week's post. 

Epilogue: Three years after this date, a little more than two years ago, I married that gorgeous blond-hair, blue-eyed man

Blind Date

Rascal Flatts was rocking in the background as I stared at my reflection in the mirror and wondered what, exactly, I was thinking when I agreed to go on this blind date.

I hated blind dates. My middle sister had gotten married almost a year before, and ever since then, countless friends of my mom had tried to set me up with a revolving door of single Jewish boys. They felt sorry for me because my younger sister was married, and I was still single. The horror.

Forget about the fact that I was a 24 year old, second year law student living in Manhattan with my best friends. And that I had positively zero interest in getting married just then. I was a single Jewish girl living in New York City, and my younger sister was already married. It just disturbed the natural order.

I generally tried to avoid these painful outings, if at all possible. I had any number of excuses. I was overwhelmed with school work - I was a second year law student after all. I was tired. I already had plans. Maybe some other time (maybe never). And when none of these excuses worked, I lied, often and without a qualm. I was already dating someone. I just got out of a complicated relationship. And once, memorably, I don't want to get married. Ever.

But this was a blind date I couldn't avoid.

I had been hearing about this boy for the better part of a year. He was the older brother of my youngest sister's best friend. The girls were seventeen, and they and their friends decided it would be just so awesome if L's sister married A's brother. It was my sister, and I couldn't really say no.

Which was why, on a late April night, with my federal income tax final exam a mere week away, I was putting on makeup, when I really wanted to be in sweatpants memorizing facts about cost basis and depreciation. I had a real shot at Dean's List: High Honors that semester, and I wanted it more than anything.

I wanted it more than I wanted to be choosing between brown and light purple eye shadow. I wanted it more than I wanted to be deciding whether to wear light or dark jeans, and whether I needed a coat for the unpredictable April weather.

We were meeting for dessert, but were we sitting outside or inside? Would there be a walk afterwards? Should I wear comfortable shoes, or the far cuter heels I could barely walk ten feet in?

These were not the kinds of questions I wanted to be dealing with in late April.

For three years of my life late April was for dirty clothes, unwashed hair, and dark-circled eyes. For pens, highlighters and textbooks. For ungodly amounts of caffeine, and junk food when I remembered to eat at all. For cramming thousands of arcane facts and figures into my head and regurgitating the information on command in service of the law school gods.

No, late April was not for blind dates.

Yet here I was, dressed for the first time in a week, and fighting a losing battle with concealer on the aforementioned dark circles.

Screw it, I thought. I'm tired. He'll just have to deal with the circles.

Grabbing my coat and a bag I hoped contained all the necessities, I rushed downstairs to catch the bus that should have been pulling up to the curb outside my building in exactly a minute.

The bus was late. As I stood under a darkening sky, two minutes from being late myself, I mentally cursed my sister, and swore that this would be the last blind date I ever went on for the rest of my life.

It was.

That blind date?

Is now my husband.