To err is human, right?

Why is it that some people are so unforgiving of basic human error? Yesterday, I made a mistake at work, and realized it about 30 minutes later. I immediately took full responsiblity, explained my mistake and corrected it. Nevertheless, I spent part of this morning getting yelled at, accused and belittled.

Mistakes have consequences. They have to, otherwise people wouldn't be dissuaded from making the same ones twice. Some of those consequences are self-inflicted. Upon realizing my error, I felt embarrassed, stupid and inadequate. I beat myself up about it the whole commute home. I paid the price, which was clear in my apology, the verbal equivalent of falling on my sword.

Why was further verbal abuse necessary? Maybe, this person thought I was not properly educated on the importance of not repeating my mistake. Maybe, this person thinks I don't take my responsiblities seriously. Maybe, this person just likes making others feel bad. I don't have the answers, but I can tell you that for the rest of today, I was less productive and less efficient as a result of the A.M. tirade. Often, it dominated my thoughts, which I think even this person would agree, would have been better off dominated by the day's assignments.

Morning People

I envy morning people. Every so often, I dabble in mornings. Morning people have so much more time in the day and they are probably worlds more efficient than I am. I've tried to wake up early, usually in an effort to get a run in before work. These little phases typically last a couple of weeks, before I am back to resetting my alarm to get more zzz's. I sincerely hope morning people are born that way, because if they're not, then I really am just that lazy.

The last time I woke up at dawn and went to the gym, I was dizzy and didn't actually wake up until the walk back home. It kind of defeats the point of waking up to have more time, when you can barely put one foot in front of the other until your normal waking time. It's not just working out either.

Throughout my life, I've forced myself to get up at ungodly hours of the morning to study, to work and even to shop. In all cases, I'm a big, fat failure. I don't accomplish anything worthwhile or really enjoy myself until at least 9 or 10 a.m. So, all you morning risers, I salute you, and tomorrow when my alarm goes off at 6 a.m. and I try to get to the gym, send me some empowering morning energy thoughts please!

Return to the living

What is the most logical follow-up to my return to weekly 10+ mile runs? Of course -- a ridiculously nasty sinus and ear infection. I spent the last week downing 4 bottles of seltzer and one box of tissues per day, along with sleeping every few hours. I also missed three days of work, much to the disappointment of my employers.

A phenomenon I will never understand is the expectation held by many employers that their employees will show up to work unless their so sick that they're about to be hospitalized. I have no doubt in my mind that I got sick, because day after day I am surrounded by co-workers who cough, sneeze and spray germs in all directions. Being a committed, hard-working employee can't possibly mean you come to work when you're pale, feverish and contagious, can it? There remains the distinct possibility that I am just paranoid and that my employer and others in fact don't want me coming to work when I am legitimately ill. Nevertheless, in nearly every job I've held, I've heard co-workers express fear that they will make a bad impression on the boss if they stay home for more than a single day, if at all, while under the weather. From whence does this twisted perception come? I resent it, and I want answers.

Thankfully, my body has rebounded, responded to the wonder-drugs and I am inching toward 100%. Time to play catch-up at the office in earnest.

Hearts, stars and delirium

I am incapable of a purely romantic moment on Valentine's Day. One year, I actually got dumped on V-Day. For years, I actually wore black in protest of the Hallmark holiday, all the while secretly hoping for those schmoopy Valentine's moments.

This year, I am with JB again, and since last year's day was so perfect, I thought, "Hey, two in a row! My luck is finally turning around." These thoughts came too soon, as today I came down with a world-class head cold. I'm totally congested, have glands the size of golf balls, and my throat is flaming. I look like hell, and for some reason I can't hear anything JB says. "Huh?" has been my phrase of choice, which does not bode well for our dinner out tomorrow at a crowded, uber-popular Mexican restaurant where I made reservations a month ago. At this point, I'm just hoping that I won't be running a fever by tomorrow, or suffering from laryngitis. Ah, Valentine's -- too bad Cupid's not carrying flu shots in those arrows.

Living with a writer

One of the most interesting and infuriating facets of my current living situation is my boyfriend JB's behavior while he's writing. More and more, I find myself studying him like he's a foreign species who will soon have his own Discovery channel documentary. We live in a small studio apartment, and if I am ever home while he's working on his first novel, heaven help me.

Envision, if you will, the following scenario: I come home after a long, intense day at the office to find JB at his laptop - scrolling incessantly with his optical mouse, as he looks for passages that need editing. "Pspsppspspssssspspspsps," I hear as I try to watch television, surf the internet on my laptop, or just sit and relax. He's testing out dialogue, and he gets so darn irritable if I poke fun or, horror of horrors, try to engage him in conversation. I try to ease my way into his world slyly with, "JB, if you're talking to yourself, can't you talk to me, too?" "YOU GET FRIDAYS AND SATURDAYS! Let me work!"

Ordinarily, I would escape to another room and sulk, but lacking one of those, I turn back to my laptop and begin a blog post. If you can't beat 'em, you might as well join 'em. One of these days/weeks/years, JB and I are going to have similar schedules, where when we're both home, we can and want to spend time together like a normal couple. This will inevitably coincide with a time in our lives when we have multiple rooms. It just figures.

Secrets and Sparks

"A woman's heart is a deep ocean of secrets." - Rose, in Titanic
Despite the fact that this was a seriously cheesy movie, I still remember seeing this movie in college, hearing that line and honestly believing that it wasn't really true. I also remember a few years later, when I discovered it was entirely true.

I was dating this guy. Let's call him the "medical student." Anyway, we'd been together for nearly a year, and I was bored. He was the nicest guy. He never argued with me. He always let me have whatever I wanted. There was no challenge -- or even the slightest difference of opinion. He treated me like gold, and I figured that was the best a girl could hope for. One day, we were on our way to get some lunch (I can recall exactly what street we were on and even the details of his car's interior -- '90's Ford Explorer - gray interior), and I was staring out the window thinking, "Wow, is this really it? You find a nice guy, who will always do right by you and that's it. No moron would throw that away, right? I wish there was a spark. Can I live a life without any spark?"

A few months later, I got my answer. The medical student and I were studying at my law school library one evening when I got up to check my email over at the computer lab. I was tired, still getting over walking pneumonia, trying not to panic over upcoming exams and looking absolutely wretched. After briefly checking my email, I made my way out of the lab. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed one of my teaching assistant walking behind me. Let's call him "the TA." This was a guy who was really smart, but not someone I'd ever noticed as being particularly attractive, until, of course, I looked like hell and had no time to talk. He stopped me to ask how I was feeling and how my studies were going, and as we chatted I swear that sparks like lightning bugs on a summer night were everywhere.

Long story short (too late), I eventually got the courage to realize I could have a different, spark-filled life, and I broke up with the medical student. I could never fully explain to him why things weren't working out, except to say that it was complicated and I just needed more. Telling him I needed sparks like the ones I felt with the TA would have been cruel, and it was, until this post, one of my heart's ocean of secrets. Since then, my heart has accumulated many secrets, and they always remind me that I can dare to have a different life - one with lots of lightning bugs and one where someone treats me like gold.

My NYC

Today, while reading on my train ride to work, I came across the most wonderful description of my walks home from the subway station in the evenings:
"The soft rush of taxis...and laughter, laughter hoarse as a crow's, incessant and loud, with the rumble of the subways underneath - and over all, the revolutions of light, the growings and recedings of light - light dividing like pearls - forming and reforming in glittering bars and circles and monstrous grotesque figures cut amazingly against the sky."
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned

My coworkers often ask how I can stand the commute, why I don't just move to Connecticut, and why I think it's worth it to pay more to live in the polluted, loud, dirty city. The main reason, I think, is that in all of its awful imperfection, it is simultaneously comforting and reassuring. I come home after a day slaving away in the 'burbs, and I am immediately calmer as I listen to the city sounds. Manhattan has a uniquely romantic and hopeful quality to it. Naysayers will tell me to smell the gross city odors and pay closer attention to the crime and pestilence, but when I think of my NYC, I prefer a You've Got Mail sensibility, where daisies, the friendliest flowers, are just around the corner.

Getting old

I'm twenty-seven, and not exactly over-the-hill. Still, when Friday night hits I have the following dominant thoughts: I can't wait to go home and sit in front of the television. Then I can sleep. That will be nice.

I realize how pitiful and sad that sounds. I also occasionally feel pitiful and sad for indulging my Friday night laziness. Last night, for example, I decided to meet some friends from school at a bar downtown after work. On the train ride back to the city, I started to feel the lazy creep in, but I resisted valiantly. I was determined to be young and fun. I got off the train and quickly made my way to the downtown express subway platform. I waited with what was a rapidly increasing number of other commuters. Five minutes went by...then fifteen...then twenty. At twenty-five minutes, I cracked. All the stress and frustration of my work week barreled down on me at warp speed, and I had one of those moments where I just could not be in a crowded place. I was hot, tired, bitter and feeling slightly claustrophobic.

Turning abruptly, I bobbed and weaved through the crowd like George Costanza playing Frogger. I crossed over to the uptown platform to go home, when (of course) the downtown train came roaring toward the station. The fates took pity on me and the uptown train followed a few moments later. I rode the train to 59th Street, and went to the only place that I knew could calm me down after a long, poorly-ended week: Bloomingdales. My usual sitting in front of the t.v. with takeout leftovers was followed by beautiful, sweet, perfect sleep. Ahhhhhh.

a shirt and boobs

Last night, I went to an annual firm dinner. Everyone was wearing a suit, and most of those suits were pants suits. Granted, all the men wore pants suits and there were more men there than women. Still, the women rallied behind the pants suit, with only limited exceptions. One partner recalled the first female partner who wore pants suits to the office some thirty years ago, and the upheaval it caused at the time. I'm sure this same upheaval was occurring at offices nationwide. Employers didn't know what to do with the changing identity of women in the workforce. Without the skirt, what was to distinguish them from their male counterparts?
As Ann Taylor and even Brooks Brothers began to tailor pants suits and collared shirts for women, there remained one difference from the men's version. Aside from that random 90's trend perpetuated by Madonna urging us to Vogue, women do not wear ties.
Without the tie running down the center of our chests, is the female uniform "a shirt and boobs," instead of a shirt and tie?

I don't have a clue how fashion evolved this way. I'm happy that the proverbial noose does not have to hang around my neck all day. I hear it's uncomfortable and often stifling, and that is where it all makes sense. Women's breasts have been uncomfortable and often stifling since the beginning of time. Sure, you can jazz them up with the right undergarments or a really cute top., just like ties come in fun paisley prints, and even with little animals embroidered on them. Dress it up and make it pretty. We're all just showing the world what we're working with (thank you Mystikal for the reference).

Everybody's workin' for the weekend.

It's not at all a new revelation that most of the working population craves weekends. What do most of us do when the weekends come? Abso-freakin'-lutely nothing. We sit around bemoaning the fact that the next work day is only days or hours away. Last weekend, I tried to break out of my working person's weekend rut. I set out to please myself all weekend-long. And, no dirty little children, I don't mean that sexually - at least not entirely.

My battle was uphill from the start. I had to work until almost 9 p.m. Friday night. By the time I got home, I was ready to blow off some serious steam. From my previous post, you know that I did do my grocery shopping, and yes, like the little OCD girl I am, I cleaned my apartment. Instead of spending time moping, however, I indulged. I watched an old Audrey Hepburn movie that I'd Netflixed weeks ago, but had spent too much time wallowing to watch. I caught a preview screening of a quality chick flick. I bought cute socks and underwear, just because I felt like it. I ordered a cute new bag online. I slept until at least 10:30 a.m. both days. I ate seriously tasty Thai food. I ran, long and hard until all the week's jitters and stress were a distant memory. By Sunday night, I was eating the meal I cooked for fun and watching Grey's Anatomy, one of the best shows on television. It was perfect, but in all its perfection came the stark contrast of the week to come. So, like every other Sunday night, insomnia set in and I listened to the clock tick tock away the remaining moments of the luscious weekend.

I still think there's something to this whole enjoy every moment business. I also think a therapist could retire on my case alone.

Nesting

This weekend, I discovered the true test of a serious relationship: grocery shopping together. My boyfriend works weekends, so I typically do our grocery shopping for the week by myself. I find it weirdly relaxing. Even in a cramped city grocery store, jammed with other weekend shoppers, a sense of calm overtakes me. I don't even notice the screaming children, irritated shoppers and bitter employees. I am consumed with getting the most for my money and achieving my goal of not having to return to the store for another week.

While at dinner last night, JB (the boyfriend) volunteered to shop with me after dinner, so that he could help carry the heavy bags. Doesn't that sound like a kind, sensitive offer? I thought so at first, so I consented. Within minutes of entering the grocery store, however, I learned my lesson -- NEVER let him shop with me again. I got agitated at the overzealous way in which he noticed every single product on every single shelf. As he pointed out the disgusting looking potato salad in the deli aisle, I took off at top speed, pushing the cart into the next aisle. I rounded the corner so quickly, I probably burned cart wheel rubber. If I could keep him focused on keeping up with me, maybe he wouldn't pick up the jumbo jar of pickles, or the additional bag of chips. This worked for the most part, until he got way too concerned that the creamsicles might melt, as we entered the last aisle to pick up bread before going to check out. "Are you sure bread is all you need? We can't wait too long, or the creamsicles won't be as good. Are you sure?" I let out a primal yell, as I unleashed the last half hour's worth of frustration at him. Ok, perhaps primal yell is overstating, but I did let loose a tirade about JB ruining my zen shopping experience.

To be fair, JB is a boyfriend of the highest order. He is an enthusiastic, happy guy, and it makes perfect sense that he would grocery shop that way, too. I'd never want to change him.

Memoirs of a life story.

With all of the recent controversy surrounding the veracity of memoirs, I have started to wonder whether blogs professing to share true anecdotes about the authors' lives are properly deemed memoirs. A memoir is not necessarily an autobiography, as my astute cousin pointed out today. So, might you ask, what exactly is a memoir?

Well, Webster's definitions are: 1 : an official note or report : MEMORANDUM; 2 a : a narrative composed from personal experience b :AUTOBIOGRAPHY -- usually used in plural c : BIOGRAPHY;and 3 a : an account of something noteworthy : REPORT b plural : the record of the proceedings of a learned society.

So, a memoir could be an autobiography, but I think the more commonly accepted usage of the word indicates an understanding that it is more an account of something noteworthy. What Oprah didn't quite understand when she was berating him on national television, is that the account of something noteworthy that Frey sought fit to put in book form, were largely events that took place in his mind. They were absolutely noteworthy events -- they just didn't necessarily happen in the physical realm. It's like those jokers who try to tell me Santa isn't real. Well, if I were to pen a memoir, I'd include my experiences with Santa. Why? Easy -- because I've encountered him dozens of times, and it will forever remain my secret whether that was in the physical world, or the world that exists only in the mind.

I'm so tired, I can't sleep.

It's a cruel truth of my existence that when I am absolutely stressed out and wiped out, I have the hardest time getting any sleep. I've been known, during these miserable bouts of insomnia, to yell at nobody in particular (a phenomenon my boyfriend finds particularly disturbing), to get up pace and get back in bed at least a half dozen times and to think of anything, everything and nothing in the attempt to distract myself into falling asleep. Eventually, either some external force takes pity on me and allows me to become unconscious, or I just wait in bed for the alarm to go off hoping that the mere fact I am horizontal is providing me with some form of rest. I'm not the sort who will take prescription medication or perform any weird rituals to get sleep. Friends and family have suggested warm milk, reading, tylenol PM, and other relatively benign home remedies for insomnia. Nothing seems to work, and in an utterly bizarre twist, Tylenol PM actually makes my heart race and keeps me awake even longer.

So for now, I count my blessings on the nights when sleep comes easily, and refuse to believe that you can't just catch up on the weekends by sleeping until 11 a.m. I'd like to tell you this post is actually going somewhere, but it's not really. I didn't sleep much last night. Coupled with having to take a 7 a.m. train out of the city this morning to be on time for an all-day work seminar (where I was not allowed to sleep, despite the fact that work-related seminars appear to be the one sleep remedy that works on me), my mind has turned to mush. With that, I bid you goodnight. I'm hoping for one myself.

To those whom much is given, much is expected.

Giving to charity is a great thing. If you're lucky enough to have a little extra money around, it's honorable and downright nice to give it those less fortunate than yourself. The problem is: how on earth do you decide where to send your dollars? There are zillions upon zillions of charities, foundations, 501(c)(3)'s, nonprofits, and hippie save-the-world types (There are also a zillion ways for them for classify themselves).

Today, I got a call from one such nonprofit organization. This one is a musical organization that got my information because I bought tickets to a holiday concert back in December. The concert was wonderful, but with all those struggling in the world, do they really need my money more than say, AIDS victims, for instance? Still, I've been musically inclined since I was little, and I have a soft spot for such groups. So, I caved under the pressure to get back to my already too stressful work day and agreed to have $15 charged to my credit card each month. Suckers - there's one born every minute.

Now that I've begun my 2006 charitable giving (which will in no way be impressive because I remain financially crippled by student loans), I am racked with indecision over how to pick other worthy causes. On the one hand, the answer seems clear. Cancer has hit my family like the hurricanes battered the Lousiana coast. I definitely want to contribute most of my available monies to a cancer research charity. There are tons of hospitals, foundations and think tanks, all more than worthy of my money. I picked the one that's worked directly with my family, but it seems like nothing I give will be enough. The nagging voice in my head utters the following guilt trip, "Perhaps, PAF, if you laid off the obsessive compulsive shopping, you could do a better job at saving the world." Of course, its devilish counterpart invariably follows with, "What are the odds of that? You've had a terrible day -- won't some nice new shoes make it all better?"

Going the distance. Going for speed.

My Dad, and several of my lawyer friends, have commented on my running: "I only run if I'm being chased. You're crazy." Today, I started thinking about why I run. It started as a way to lose weight. I read that it burned calories efficiently, and I wanted those pesky little suckers burned off as quickly as possible. Really, though, I got into running because my boyfriend at the time (his days were numbered for many reasons) told me I couldn't.

I remember the moment so vividly - like a mental home movie. It was about 4:00 in the afternoon one weekend in a town outside of Hartford, Connecticut. It had been a sunny, seasonably warm day, but the sun was beginning to set. "M" and I went to the local park for a jog. I was not in good shape at the time, but I figured two miles didn't sound like much, and I would be fine if we took it slow. I huffed and puffed, and probably could have blown down a house with all that exertion, but I barely made it a quarter mile before I had to stop. My chest hurt and my body had completely rebelled against me. M said, "PAF, I knew you would never make it. You're just not athletic. Some people can run, and some people can't." Hah! Nobody, but NOBODY tells me I can't do something. Call it the remnants of childish stubborn antics. To this day, I will try like hell the second someone tells me I can't or won't do something.
A testament to my stubborn nature: the time my law school alma mater put me on the waitlist. Before that, I could have cared less if I went to law school. I just didn't want to get a job. Still, from the moment I got the letter telling me I had been "wait-listed," I vowed to show those people they were wrong. I got in, excelled, racked up about 100K in debt, and now I'm a lawyer. Query who actually showed whom on that one.

Anyhow, when M told me I would never be a runner, I knew then and there that I would be. It took a long time and a truckload of pain and suffering, but running is one of my favorite ways to relax and blow off steam. I ran through law school; I continue to run through being a lawyer; I ran through both my parents' major illnesses; I ran through several romantic break-ups; and I have pushed through several running related injuries. There's a Melissa Etheridge song that sums it up better than I ever could: "I Run for Life." Each time I lace up my sneakers, I do just that.

Can any of us be Clare Huxtable?

When I was a little girl, I always imagined that my life would turn out like Clare Huxtable's on The Cosby Show. I'd be a successful lawyer, with a great husband, five (well, maybe 2 or 3) kids, a nice home and a deliriously happy life. Well, I'm a lawyer, and from what I can tell, having the husband, kids, home and life on top of that is a lot harder than it looks. How can an associate fit it all in? Eleven to twelve hour days spent commuting and working leave little time for meals, let alone being there for Cliff or little Rudy. Sure, most lawyers try to fit it all in. They have stay-at-home spouses, or better still, for those multi-career driven couples, a round-the-clock nanny. You can hire just about everyone -- from the nanny, to the housekeeper, to the personal shopper, to the gardener (who, if you're anything like Gabrielle on Desperate Housewives, can also perform other more interesting tasks). To me, this begs the question, if you hire out all the non-career aspects of your life, is the life actually yours anymore?

I grew up in an era where women talked of shattering the glass ceiling of corporate America and having it all. My peers and I believed it was possible and, in fact, inevitable for us. Then, once we hit our mid-twenties, one by one we started to question the inevitability of having it all. I know one very successful female associate who has chosen not to date or pursue marriage and family for the foreseeable future, because she needs to fully focus on creating her niche at the firm. I know several former associates who have "put their time in," and quit their firms to start a family or pursue a less stressful vocation. Mainly though, most of my associate cohorts are somewhere in limbo -- holding out as long as they can in the hopes that they will actually be the ones to have it all, or at least until they can decide whether to work or to live. The problem is that the damn limbo pole keeps getting lower, and I, for one, have never had a good sense of balance.

Do you ever wonder where your life is going?

Lately, I feel like I'm a car stalled out on the highway, without AAA. I watch as the other cars whiz by me, with a sense of purpose I lack. I started out revving my engine, cruising toward the on-ramp. I graduated from college, then law school. I got the big firm job, and with a few detours here and there, I remain at big firm job spinning my wheels but not getting anywhere - or at least anywhere I'm interested in going. I spent, at a minimum, 11 hours per day, traveling to and being at work. That's a lot of time spent metaphorically stuck on the side of a highway. I seem to spend the remaining hours of the week and the weekends racing around trying to make up for it. Literally, I run at least five miles a day several times each week. I power walk all over the City, in search of happy distractions. I even feel like I'm racing when I try, unsuccessfully, to calm down enough to get some sleep at night. Where is all of this leading? When do I get back on the highway with some idea of where I'm headed? Damned if I know, but if a horse happens to be on this highway somewhere and is in need of a rider, I have some gorgeous new Burberry riding boots that will come in handy.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

In light of my current idolatry of Opinionista, one brave former lawyer, I am using this post to emulate one of her early postings that consisted of purely random facts about her. Here, in no particular order, are some random facts about me:

Watching bodies of water can amuse me for hours --river, ocean, lake -- doesn't matter. The same is true of museums.

I worship at the altar of the writers of Gilmore Girls. My wit will never be that sharp.

I've learned in the last few years that being good at something does not mean you should make it a career.

I derive weird relaxation and pleasure out of laundry and ironing.

When I'm really upset, I almost always start cleaning my bathroom.

After losing more than twenty pounds in the last six years, I don't feel any differently when I look in the mirror.

I think Cheetos are good food.

If it was possible to remain healthy and subsist entirely on food from Buttercup Bakeshop, I would.

I didn't wear a stitch of makeup until I was 23, and even now that I wear it from time to time, nobody can ever tell.

Despite my indifference toward makeup, I spend a fortune getting my hair the exact right shade of blond.

I think Emmet Otter's Jugband Christmas is the best Christmas show ever made. If you have not seen it, do so immediately. Your life will never be the same.

I'm 27 years old, and the first person I turn to when I need advice is still my Daddy.

My favorite night of the year has always been, and will always be, Christmas Eve with my family. There's no magic quite like it on any other day.

I try to live by the following credo, "Only YOU can prevent forest fires." Smokey the Bear was one smart dude.

I'm still friends, or at least friendly, with nearly all the men I've ever dated. I'm proud of that.

I really, REALLY miss being in school. If I could get paid to be a student for life, I'd do it in a second. Yes, I know I'm a pretty big nerd.

I love rap music -- The Roots, Juelz Santana, Jay-Z, Dr. Dre, DMX, Ludacris, 50 Cent, Blackalicious, Kanye West, Eminem, Wu Tang, Biggie, Snoop, Talib Kweli...and that's just the beginning.

I'm supremely insecure, yet I have no problem writing these blog posts. I don't have a Clue as to why,which reminds me -- Clue is the coolest movie ever made - hands down.

The Rain in Spain...

...Has got NOTHING on the rain on the Northeast coastline this morning. I managed to drag my tired, motivation-less body through the wind and rain to the 4/5 train and began the crowded, hot and humid journey down to Grand Central Terminal. Typically, this means my trip to work has just begun, as I then board a Metro-North train to scenic Fairfield County, Connecticut where I work. The trip is just under an hour, followed by another 10 minute walk to the office. What people won't do for money, right?

Anyhow, today the starts aligned to screw me. The storm felled trees right and left -- conveniently over train tracks in the Bronx. I waited for an hour in Grand Central while transport workers feverishly cleared away the pieces of tree. I then took a crowded train on a jerky, bad carnival train ride that lasted over an hour and a half. We lurched forward and came to a stop so many times, I counted my blessings that I had not yet consumed anything other than lukewarm coffee. I finally arrived at my destination, and I was once again met with the wind and torrential rains on my walk from the station to the office. I swear - it rained SIDEWAYS the whole way. I was soaked as I got on the elevator and then walked through the office door. I was met with the following comment from our receptionist, "Honey, why did you bother with all of that? If I was you, I wouldn't have come in." This is the woman who always informs me when a lunch meeting ends with leftover cookies -- my penchant for sweets is legendary everywhere I go in life. It's hereditary, and I long ago abandoned any efforts to change it. I just tack on time at the gym to compensate. I figure the false teeth will come eventually, so I might as well go down with a nice big cookie in my mouth.

Anyway, I'd be a liar if I said I didn't think of just going home more than a dozen times on my sojourn. I could work from home -- telecommuting. And in hindsight, I should have just crawled under the first rock I could find. The storm was only the beginning of my day. Lesson learned: While the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plains, the rain in the NYC area falls squarely on my shoulders.

More on that when I regain the ability to think coherently.

The Opinionista

Last night, while procrastinating my own legal work at my endlessly nutty law firm, I happened upon a terrific outlet for my stress. While looking at Gawker.com, I saw a brief mention of Opinionista - a 27 year old NYC lawyer, much like myself who was living the dream. She'd resigned from her firm after her blog about the perplexing, troubling and always surprising world of law firm life became wildly successful, and she was writing a book about it all. She'd already received mentions for her blog in the New York Times and the Observer, not to mention several references to her work on Gawker.com. The Observer discovered her identity and "outed" her by interviewing her in an article published today. Through the articles written about Opinionista, I learned she lives in a Soho duplex with her very successful boyfriend. So, quitting her job as a well-paid firm associate was probably not as risky as it would be for the rest of us. Still, a rush ran through my body as I read her blog posts, which mirrored entries in my personal diary, if I had one. She took the stress and anxiety of her daily existence, that caused her persistent insomnia, and channeled it into her blog. The blog and its subsequent success freed her of the golden handcuffs references by professors in their cautionary tales of big firm life. My hero. Rock on, Opinionista. You've given me reason to continue blogging and you're right -- it is cathartic.