I found myself walking back to the subway on the way to work last Friday, blearily checking my email after two hours of sleep (again!), and thinking that there was something . . . odd about this existence. People milling around, the delivery guy making his stops, the woman getting some coffee at the corner bodega. A couple in the subway holding hands. How did I choose the life where working until 7:30 am was just "par for the course." Really? It seems crazy, as in certifiably bizarre. That woman over there, walking towards me across the street, what does her life look like? It almost certainly does not include debating nuances of the bluebook in the wee hours.
Luckily, it doesn't happen that often, but
every now and again, I will have a week or two weeks that just strips me
bare. There was a moment on Saturday
when I broke down sobbing at the stress of it all, but it passed, like a brief,
torrential downpour in the tropics. I
did those horrible shuddery deep breathes, talked through the problem with DK, wrote
the mea culpa email asking for more time, and moved on. The perspective can get a little screwy – I
actually offered to skip the wedding
of a good friend to deliver a legal memo to the partner by 6:00; but DK, the
partner and finally, me, all decided that was a really stupendously dumb
idea. So I put on a fancy strapless
dress, some high shoes and went to the ceremony and stayed through the best man
toast before heading home to work . . . until 4:30 am.
I couldn't do this job if this was the norm, I tell you what. But, lest you think I'm just a sad sack
sucker for punishment, I will admit there is satisfaction in a job well
done, there just is, and now that I'm on the other side, I'm relatively ok with
the commitment it took to get there.
[Wow, could a more Pollyanna-esque sentiment be possible? So be it.
I am proud of myself.]
There's been some fun in the last couple weeks too, of course. First, DK got back from his Parisian business
trip where he hung with likes of Baroness Fancy Pants Ludwig Von Windsor
III and Living Legend British Painter and Hollywood Socialite Dimwit. And upon his late
night return, I very happily received a number of lovely little cadeaux,
including a large canister of fancy tropical pepper, a big bottle of my
favorite perfume that I liberally spritzed on, and -- heaven -- a very big box
of macarons from La Duree. I ate three in bed that night and the whole thing was
gone within days.
I also chopped off all my hair and feared for a good two weeks
that it was a dreadful mistake. It's all very Rosemary's Baby. Without the
devil child, of course, but still, it's a lot of face to have to contend with
all of a sudden. It's grown out just
enough now for me to be happy with it (as opposed to the oh my god
what did I do? whhhhhyyyy?) and it's a real hit with the little old
men contingent. No seriously, I have
been stopped by two quite dapper elderly gentlemen on separate occasions to be
complimented on my "hairdo."
My friend Ted says it's because I basically look like an effeminate, young
boy (which . . . way to kill the compliment there, Ted). On my way back from the bathroom at an art
gallery dinner, one old man gestured for me to come over to his table. "I wanted to tell you I think your hairdo
is smashing. When you walk, it's all
quite poetic." Well! Isn't that the
way to compliment a lady? That's a lot
better than, "Um. Did you do
something . . . different? To your,
um. Hair?"
Other happy things: I have discovered my two most favorite
breakfasts ever.
- Toasted buttermilk crumpet. Smear of almond butter and eucalyptus honey; or
- Toasted rosemary bread with spoonful of ricotta mixed with same blissful honey and sliced cherries on top.
Both are absolute heaven. And it takes every muster of wifely love to offer DK a bite. That's all the news I got, since I need to now awkwardly change into a floor-length black gown in my office. There's a charity event tonight that I got suckered into -- because what could be more fun than chatting with a bunch of partners you work with in a strapless evening gown? Sigh. At least there will be champagne.
