the soapbox

As someone who enjoys flights for the same reason she likes Mexican vacations – no cell phone service and no internet – I generally don’t like chatting on planes.  I prefer to pop in my headphones and catch up on work or read a good book.  Yesterday, I was on a plane bound ultimately for Zurich, but I was getting off in DC to catch a connection to Albany.  It was a massive plane with a very eclectic/European passenger scene.  The first guy to sit down next to me smelled like an ashtray and promptly informed me that I was in his seat.  Confident I had correctly located 38K (yes, THAT big of a plane), I told him I was pretty sure this was the window seat the gate agent had promised me.  He proceeded to argue with me about how my seat was his because he was also certain he was given a window seat.  Turns out there are two window seats on airplanes, and his was located on the other side of the plane (me: 1, stinky European: 0).  He huffed off like it was my fault.  Not the best start to my trip and just further confirmation of my headphones/reading material M.O. 

Not long after, a very nice man sat down in the aisle seat and began to chat.  I dutifully lowered my book, cautious to begin a discussion before the plane had even left the ground.  Almost immediately, however, I found myself pleasantly surprised by the pleasant conversation with my flight neighbor.  We easily conversed about our travels (ie. whether either of us was actually bound for Zurich and how badly it must suck for the people in the middle seats to have to fly like that all the way to Zurich).  As it always does, it quickly came out that I’m a former lawyer and the practice of law “wasn’t really for me.”  I never considered myself a loud talker (I know many of my readers would maybe disagree with that statement), but sure enough, a woman across the aisle heard my rant and chimed in with her friends’ similar experiences in law (and debt) and their similar subsequent renunciation of lawyerdom.  She assured me I was “not alone,” (which I didn’t think I was), and we had a very nice discussion, reaffirming that it wasn't me... it was the law.

My aisle companion, who was a hospital administrator and very curious about my current job (and passion) CaféWell, proceeded to pick my brain over the course of the flight.  He almost refused to let me ask him anything about his story, always incredulously turning the conversation back to me.  You mean to tell me… with THAT much debt… you just up and quit law?  How do you sleep at night?? (I’m taking a little poetic license there, but that was the gist).  I told him I sleep a heck of a lot better than I slept when I was a lawyer and told him about the Income Based Repayment program and the freedom it offers… the freedom to actually live you life and not be a slave to the debt.

Just as the pilot informed us that we were beginning our initial descent into Washing Dulles airport did I realize that I had spent the better part of three hours pontificating.  I apologized for being on my soapbox, to which he responded No, I’m fascinated.  And besides, we’re on a plane.  Not like there’s anything else to do.  So if you had it all to do over again… how would you do it?  I quickly realized in that moment that this was the first time I had outright preached about the ridiculousness of the legal profession since my career change (and for those of you who were at the Steamboat wedding and beg to differ with me on this, you have absolutely no idea what you were missing). 

So thank you, Mr. 38J, for allowing me to take the microphone and remind myself that I made a fantastic life choice.  Little did I know how much I would need that reminder, as I sat stranded at Dulles airport for 8 hours with a migraine.

reunion week

A good law school friend and his beautiful (now) wife got married over the weekend in the mountains.  It was the first time in over 2 years that almost all of our group was in the same room... And I was incredibly grateful to my newlywed friends for their emphasis on a casual, laid back celebration.  The guests drank wine during the ceremony, and our friend officiated, closing with "...and you may now tongue-kiss your bride."  It was hysterical.  I laughed.  I cried.  I partied. 

I wish I could tell you that "the more things change, the more they stay the same," but I would be lying.  The truth is things have changed, and nothing seemed the same at all.  While it was great to catch up with everyone, it was really hard to ignore how different each of our lives had become.  Those of you who know me only as the recovering lawyer, and only know my anti-law mantras, might be surprised to hear me say how much I miss law school... But I miss law school.  I really miss law school.  Two and a half years is a long time, and we're different people now than we were then.  Then, it was civ pro, admin, outlines, moot court and cheap beers till bar time at the Shadium.  Now it's babies, spouses, cases, clients, out-of-state jobs and early nights. 

As one of the few who stayed out till bar time after the wedding (for the record, the bride and groom did too), I was amazed by who wasn't there.  Our funny friend who performed the ceremony would have, in the past, led us till bar time with his antics, and we all would have met for brunch the next morning to discuss the shenanigans of the previous night.  Instead, after returning to town, I ran into him at the grocery store, dutifully buying the week's groceries.  He had retired early the night before and undoubtedly felt like a million bucks.  I, on the other hand, felt like three dollars and fifty cents and couldn't remember a time I had out partied him. 

The river we had all tubed down just three years before, when we seemed carefree and on top of the world, was flooded and raged through town.  I briefly considered drawing an analogy here between the rushing river and how quickly life seems to be flying by... but that would be cheesy.

Our ("for all intensive purposes") law school reunion made me feel old.  But to add insult to injury, my ten year high school reunion is this Saturday.  I can only begin to imagine next week's sentiments...

head up, hair down

I got in to Salt Lake the other night after a very delayed flight with a very early meeting scheduled for the next morning.  I was exhausted, and the only thing keeping me from being in the worst mood ever was that it was still kind of light out at 10 pm, and the Utah mountains looked like they were on fire.  It was gorgeous.  The radio stations in my compact rental car had clearly been programmed by a teenager, but I was too tired to change them, so I was stuck listening to pop...  (I realize that I sound 45 when I say that).  This horrible song came on, and despite its general lack of rhythm, I found myself listening to the lyrics.  It was all about holding your head up while letting your hair down.

The whole notion of holding your head up while letting your hair down is an intensely difficult balance to achieve.  Most of us have been coached to hold our heads up at all times... even if we're completely unsure of ourselves - the whole "fake it till you make it" philosophy, and all too often (especially in law), we maintain confidence at the expense of our true personalities.

It took me a long time to feel comfortable with my hair down (I mean that figuratively as much as I actually mean it literally), to allow myself to be myself without caring if I was disliked.  I'm a girl.  I went through high school. Being disliked sucks...  Everyone knows that.  But there's something liberating about being totally and completely myself and not being liked. 

It's weird, and I have a hard time putting words to the concept of knowing who you are and sticking to it... even if it means not everyone is your biggest fan.  I'm your typical first child, August-born Leo with a  type-A personality.  I like to make everyone happy.  I like people to like me.  The shift I've felt over the last year in my outlook on personal relationships has surprised me.  I find I'm bothered less and less when I sense that I don't necessarily mesh with someone else.

Keep your head up, but let your hair down. 

ella-ella-ella, eh eh eh.

There’s a guy sitting in front of me on the plane… and he has an umbrella attached to his backpack.  I am suddenly struck by the fact that I don’t own an umbrella.  I’ve never owned an umbrella.  This is weird for me.  I’m type-A and I love plans, yet I don’t own an umbrella.  Not only that, but I straighten my wavy/indecisive hair every morning and really hate when it gets wet.

This guy not only owns an umbrella, but he brings it with him when he travels. 

It always makes me happy to see people more neurotic than I am… I almost feel normal :)

hidden manna

Gil Jones, a phenomenal speaker on faith and life, spoke yesterday about this concept he called the “hidden manna,” and he finally put words to something I have been trying to get my mind around for over a year.  While it’s technically a “religious” concept, hidden manna is like yoga in that it transcends a specific belief system and is readily applicable to humanity as a whole.  I’ve struggled my whole life with the notion that there is some kind of “plan” out there for me and that everything bad “happens for a reason.”  This cavalier, blind-faith type of philosophy always struck me as naïve and often trite, especially in the face of catastrophe.  Admittedly, on a smaller scale, my type-A personality and I have had a hard time throwing up our hands and relinquishing that kind of control over our life.

What’s weird though, is that I believe it… I believe that there is a plan for my life and that bad things happen for a reason.  I do.  So why are these phrases like nails on a chalkboard for me?  How can it be that something I believe in is the absolute LAST thing I want to hear in times in crisis?  My mom recently experienced my wrath when she quickly dismissed important bad news with a wave of her hand and a simple “well, this is just part of God’s plan.”  And I let her have it… But then I was left wondering why, if I believed it, did I feel so strongly that she shouldn’t say it?   

It’s because the manna is hidden.

I’ll pare down the concept of hidden manna and make it less “Bible-y” so as not to alienate any of my readers.  Basically, manna is this sweet, honey bread that was (and probably still is) delicious and wonderful.  Hidden manna is quite literally, “sweet, yummy, warm gooey wonderfulness that you can’t see.”  I picture manna as the most perfect comfort food imaginable.  It’s basically monkey bread.  So for the sake of this description, just think of monkey bread.  During tough times, the monkey bread is hidden… literally impossible to see.  Telling someone who is going through a tough time that “bad things happen for a reason” and “this is part of a plan” is like telling a starving man that there’s fresh, warm monkey bread right there, but he just can’t see it (much less smell it, or taste it).  It's infuriating, regardless of whether it's true.

It’s only after everything happens and the difficult time passes that we can look back and see the manna in it all.

I rounded out my totally spiritual Sunday by going to yoga last night.  It was far and away one of the toughest yoga classes I’ve ever been to, and every muscle of my body aches today with wonderful exhaustion.  The instructor, Billy, was the Gil Jones of yoga.  Billy made me deeply question my life (and my decision to go to his class) at least 14 times over the course of an hour and a half.  He too talked of the hidden manna, although he didn’t quite use those words.  As our quads shook, our shoulders screamed and sweat rolled down our bright red faces, Billy calmly told the class: And isn’t this just like life?  What is torture now is really a gift… you just don’t know it yet.

And that was the missing piece for me.  Knowing that holding the most painful and difficult yoga pose would make me stronger in the end didn’t take away from the fact that it was painful, difficult and tortuous. 

Two days later, despite barely getting my suitcase into the overhead compartment, I can already taste the manna.  Namaste.