Free fallin'

Not long ago, Scott and I had a conversation about how we'd like to celebrate our 30th birthdays. Without hesitation, I said I wanted to go skydiving...and I wanted him to go with me. He laughed it off, thinking with two more years to go, he'd have plenty of time to convince me to change my birthday wish. Last month, when I was having a particularly rough day at work, I got an email from Scott, telling me one of his co-workers was trying to get a group together to go skydiving, and did I want to go? Um, duh? So I diverted some funds away from the black hole of student loan repayment and coughed up the cash, eager for the chance to plummet from a plane at 13,000 feet. Scott didn't quite share my enthusiasm, but ever the sport, he agreed to accompany me. After weeks of anticipation, the day at last arrived. Today. We drove out to Molalla, aka Middle of Nowhere, Oregon. What better place for a jump? As soon as we handed over the balance of the fee, we were presented with a 10 page legal waiver, reminding us of the obvious fact that jumping out of an airplane is an inherently dangerous activity, and should we end up a greasy spot on the landing field, our next of kin can forget about suing the diving school. We signed our lives away and were presented with two tickets entitling us each to a tandem jump. We were led back into a small classroom for our jump training, which was literally five minutes long. An instructor told us not to flail in freefall, demonstrated how to lift our feet at landing, and told us not to walk into the plane's propeller because it would be really expensive to fix. I'm not sure I felt particularly encouraged by that little speech, and I definitely didn't feel instructed, but since it was a tandem jump, I figured my jump buddy would be doing the bulk of the work, so I would just focus on not flailing. We spent the next three hours watching the crowds thin, as groups of people went up in the sky, disappeared from view, reappeared as tiny specks spilling from the back of the plane, glided back down to earth, and dropped to the ground. After watching several people make not so smooth looking landings, I decided I didn't want to ruin the jeans I was wearing by making a butt landing. It just looked painful. The hours passed and any jitters we might have had ebbed as we waited. Soon, we were all just itching to get on with it. We took tons of pictures and goofed around to pass the time. At long last, we were the very last people left in the queue. They called us in to harness up and pair us with a tandem buddy. I was paired with our instructor. Very reassuring. I was sure to stay away from the propeller, per his instructions. Then...it was time. We loaded into the plane, and since I was the last to board, I was at the front of the line to jump. The plane took off and began ascending. At 3,000 feet, my jump buddy hooked his harness to mine and tried to make small talk over the extremely loud noises of the engine. I think he expected me to be much more nervous than I was. At 10,000 feet, he pointed out the window and drew my attention to the winding Willamette, and downtown Portland in the distance. Oh my. At 13,000 feet, a solo jumper opened the door to the plane and my tandem buddy started scooting me forward. He asked me if I was ready to jump. Well, if I wasn't, it was a little late for second thoughts. There was no way I was going to back out now. The solo jumper disappeared, followed quickly by a guy from our group sitting to my right. Before I knew it, I was standing at the open door of the plane and out we fell!!!! At first, I was completely disoriented. The horizon tilted and when I realized I was falling, I squeezed my eyes shut and started screaming my head off, but only for a second or two. I opened my eyes and took it all in. It was the most incredible thing I'd ever seen and the most unbelievable feeling in the world. Free fall lasted just over a minute, which wasn't nearly long enough. When my tandem buddy pulled the parachute, I remembered to start screaming again. He asked me if I get motion sickness, and if you know me at all, you know I get raging car sickness and have had that problem since childhood. But I wanted an adventure!! So of course I lied through my teeth and said I did not! He then proceeded to test my resolve, and demonstrate his ability to dip and twirl and spin the chute in the air. It was better than any roller coaster I'd ever been on. The ground started coming up on us fast, and I asked him if we could possibly avoid a butt landing. He said the wind was picking up, making the landing a little precarious, but he'd try. When he told me to pull up my feet, I did, and when he told me to run, I ran. And my butt never touched the ground. It was the perfect jump. I can't wait to do it again!!!! But now what am I going to do for the big 3-0? I'm open to suggestions!

Cuenta y verás...

Sometimes it overwhelms me to look at my life and realize how completely blessed I am. Last week, utterly out of the blue, I got a call from a friend with whom I haven't had contact in over a year. He tells me that his law firm is looking to hire a new associate, and asks me if I'm interested in interviewing for the position. Yes, I was definitely interested. The interview was on Friday, and on Monday evening I got a call from the hiring partner telling me the job was mine if I wanted it. Better pay, benefits and the opportunity to try my hand at something new. I took several days to think it over, and when I decided to accept, I found myself in the unenviable position of having to break the news to my current boss. My current boss is quite possibly the coolest person alive. He gave me a shot right out law school, has been a great mentor and is a fantastic boss. If the pay were better and the work was something I'm actually interested in, I'd probably stay here indefinitely. When I went to tell my boss that I'm leaving, his reaction was not one of annoyance or anger, but of excitement for me, at having such a great opportunity fall into my lap. He said he was sorry to see me go, but that the door would always be open to me if I decide to return. No guilt trip, no ploys to get me to stay, no pressure. So I'm moving on to a new job, new skill set, new co-workers and a new adventure. Scott is also in the process of obtaining new employment, and though it has been long and arduous (and promises to remain so for a while), things appear to be falling into place for him as well. Taking stock of my life really helps me keep things in perspective. I have had the opportunity to accomplish everything I ever set out to do. I have the privilege of sharing those amazing experiences with the person I love most in this world. I want for nothing. And I am grateful.

MLIA moment

One of my favorite time wasters online is the fabulous site, My Life Is Average.com. It's a site where people congregate to swap little affirmations about things that happen in their lives that make them "average." In reality, while some of the postings are truly mundane, most of the postings are not average at all, and the apparent goal is to have the most random/awesome/unbelievable thing happen to you. As you read it, you're fairly certain that an occurrence like the following would never happen in real life:

"Today, I was at my friend's house and found duct tape in his kitchen. Naturally, I tackled him to the ground, duct taped his hands behind his back, duct taped his mouth, and sat on him. His sister walked in. No, she did not high-five me. She just looked confused and awkwardly walked away."

Yesterday I was leaving the office, carrying a large notebook full of exhibits for an upcoming arbitration hearing. I had to make a pit stop before heading to my car, and as I went to wash my hands, I realized the entire counter was wet and there was nowhere to put my notebook. So I set it down on top of the paper towel dispenser, which is one of those motion activated contraptions that shakes ever so slightly as it lowers each paper towel. I washed my hands, activated the dispenser and wiped my hands dry. Just as I did, I noticed my notebook was starting to wobble. I threw away the paper towel and held out my hands, just as the notebook fell into them. I looked around for witnesses to my awesomeness, but alas, there were none. At that moment, the only thing I could think was, "My life is average," as I put on my sunglasses and went home.

The great escape

Still no word on the outcome of my job interview, but by this point, I'm not holding my breath. Moving on. Since there is no avoiding the tangible reality of my job dissatisfaction, the next best thing I can do is try to maximize the enjoyment I get out of the eight waking hours of the day when I am not tethered to my desk. The list of activities includes daily runs on the trail behind my house, nightly walks with my best guy, ballroom dance classes, Wii boxing matches in which I am occasionally the winner, Daria on dvd... and books. Oh, books. I have always loved to read, but law school effectively made reading a dreadful chore of the worst kind, and it has been years since I fully indulged my love of the written word. This summer, armed with my library card (is there anything better than "free" access to books?), I decided it was high time to rediscover pleasure reading. I started out with an offering by F. Scott Fitzgerald, not only because I like his style, but because his flowery prose actually requires me to slow down and think about what he is saying, rather than just speed reading for issue spotting and main ideas. It was wonderful to actually be able to sit with my book, reading at my leisure and not worrying about whether my interpretation of the author's intent would conform to that of a professor. However, while reading a book which offers some degree of mental calisthenics can be fun, as the summer has worn on, my interests have begun to sway towards stories into which I can really just escape. Yesterday I finished reading The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins, and it was absolutely phenomenal. I could not put it down. If you haven't yet read it, get to the library right this second and check it out. The best part about being wrapped up in a story to that extent, is the fact that, while I was vicariously experiencing life in a post-apocalyptic dystopia, I didn't have to fully resign myself to life in boringly functional suburban adultville. It's like those horribly cheesy posters that line the entrance of the library. "Explore new worlds. Read." Here's one for you: Escape the monotony of grown up responsibilities and routine while you're saving up for your next big vacation. Read. Oh, books. How could I ever have let myself forget how wonderful you can be?

No more shooting up with the Red Cross

When I was 17, the Red Cross held a blood drive at my high school. A bunch of my friends had signed up to donate, and, not to be outdone, I too put my name on the list. That single act of "don't wanna look like a pansy-ism" has resulted in many subsequent donations, and an oh so attractive cluster of needle point scars over the one vein in my arm that is occasionally visible enough to tap. I figure, since my body can efficiently replace the lost blood, then there's no reason for me to hoard it. On the other end of the spectrum, is Scott. His mantra is that he needs his blood. All of it. In the nearly 5 years that I have known him, I have tried many times to convince him to accompany me to a blood drive and donate. My success rate in that endeavor has been an astounding 0%. Apparently I was going about it all wrong. Last Sunday the blood drive coordinator from our ward was recruiting donors for the latest extravaganza, and he approached Scott about donating. For some odd reason, when confronted with the fact that I had already signed up, Scott mysterious told the coordinator he would do it too. Apparently "don't wanna look like a pansy-ism" isn't only a high school malady...you just need the proper motivation for it to come out. The blood drive was yesterday, and though I was informed that my blood pressure was lower than normal (but slightly higher than that of a corpse), my donation went off without a hitch. When it was Scott's turn, I was sure to hover and provide moral support. I cracked lame jokes while the technician inserted the needle, and I reassured him that the worst part was over. After exactly two minutes, Scott mumbled that he wasn't feeling so hot. A staffer came over and started to put the back of his chair down to ease the feeling. She told him to uncross his legs and cough, but there was no response from him. The color completely drained from his face, his eyes rolled back into his head, and he was gone. After yelling his name no fewer than 7 times without any response, the staffer called for reinforcements and quickly set about removing the needle and doing what she could to help Scott regain consciousness. It was quite the flurry of excitement. Scott finally came around after several seconds of radio silence, and was presented with his golden ticket response for any future donor coordinators trying to put the squeeze on him: Donor Reaction. The staffer checked the box on Scott's form, asked him some questions to make sure he was feeling better, instructed him to stay put for another 15 minutes, and then rest an additional 15 minutes at the snack table. We spent the requisite amount of time hanging out and laughing it up with other donors in attendance, all of whom I'm sure were glad the center of attention was not any of them. We had to ditch Scott's car at the stake center because he was obviously in no position to drive, and on the way home, he informed me that while he had seen a light, he didn't go towards it. Though I'm pretty sure no one had ever died while giving blood, I was reassured nonetheless.

Managing expectations

I'm in the midst of a sneezing fit at this very second. I ate way too much at lunch and my current condition is an unfortunate side effect of my gluttony. I have no idea why overeating makes me sneeze 25 times in a row, but it does. That has nothing to do with my motivation for blogging today. I have a job interview on Thursday. I'm super excited about it, but it's also a little nerve-wracking. It's a job I've had my eye on for a while, so just making it past the resume wasteland is an ego-booster. However, sad experience has taught me that it is at this point that things can quickly become demoralizing (I'm looking at you, FBI). I like to think that I look pretty good on paper, but being the realist that I am, I also know there are tons of other applicants who look far better on paper. I have accepted the fact that my resume is really an incomplete snapshot of who I am, and if I don't get a call back, it's probably because I'm still building up that working world credibility. The failing is my resume's fault, not mine personally. I can live with that. But when I get called in for an interview, suddenly the pressure ratchets up a few notches because I know that I present pretty well in person. This means that if I don't end up getting a job offer, the failure is personal. It means I may be adequate on paper, but in person I somehow fail to measure up and no amount of creative spin can change that. With this particular interview, the pressure is even more pronounced, because two of the three interviewers on the panel are people I know, who encouraged me to apply for the job. That fact had me feeling pretty confident at first, but now I'm grappling with the understanding that it would be quite prudent to keep my expectations in check. It's highly unlikely that I'm going to walk in the door and have them offer me the job, despite the fact that they know me and ostensibly think I'd be a good fit for the position. I'm still a pretty young lawyer, and undoubtedly there are more qualified candidates who will also be vying for the position. While getting to the interview stage is usually a major accomplishment, in this case, I fear getting the interview was the easy part. If I get the job, it means higher pay, better benefits, and my personal favorite, a permanent departure from private practice. This is everything I want. Is it too much to hope for?

Love/hate...mostly hate

Did you know that lawyers are almost twice as likely as the general population to suffer from depression? That was the cheery affirmation that arrived on my desk this morning in the form of the Oregon Attorney Assistance Program newsletter's front page story. Is that supposed to be a pep talk? I was out of the office on vacation all last week, and it was glorious. Spending hours on end, road tripping with my best guy, seeing friends and family, scuba diving in the frigid waters of the Puget Sound, and all of it, even the most boring part, was a million times better than being at work. In fact, coming back to work, to a massive stack of papers that most definitely wasn't there when I left, was an event that could accurately be described as depressing. Which leads me to wonder, is my growing weariness of my job a product of being in a position that is ill-fitting, or is being an attorney just an inherently depressing line of work? I have a serious love/hate relationship with the entire situation. I love not being unemployed. I have friends who are still searching for jobs in the over-saturated legal field, and their struggles overwhelm me with gratitude that I was able to transition from bar study to work with absolutely no downtime. But I was so anxious to avoid the breadline that I jumped at the first job offer I got. Okay, so it turned out to be the only offer (out of hundreds of resumes I sent out), but this has led me to continually wonder if I may have found something better if I had just been willing to wait it out. I love that I have nearly a year of substantive legal experience under my belt, which will surely be of great use to me when and if my dream job does finally materialize. I hate that all that experience is in an area of law in which I have zero interest in remaining. I love that my current job has enabled me to dust of my languishing Spanish skills and actually use them on a daily basis. I hate that I have to deal with Spanish speakers all day long who assume that because I'm a white girl, I can't possibly understand what they are saying to me, let alone their problems. I love working in an office that is relaxed and laid back. I hate that I'm the only one that doesn't seem to get to take advantage of the "come in late and leave early" policy because I feel guilty if I don't put in 8 hours. I hate that every case I work on settles before I really get a chance to do any real lawyering. I hate that my paychecks, which are a joke anyway, go entirely to pay for my student loans. I hate that I feel like I sold out because I was so concerned about where the money would come from to make those student loan payments. I hate that I bought into the law school scam in the first place and will spend an indefinite amount of time paying for that mistake. I hate private practice. There, I said it. I really do. All I'm doing is trying to get money for clients for whom money is an imperfect remedy. They're never happy with the results, no matter how good they are from a legal standpoint. Yes, mostly hate. I'm daydreaming of getting that ideal job; the one I love so much, I'd do for free, while toiling away at a job I practically am doing for free, that essentially saps my will to live. No wonder lawyers are a despondent bunch. On the upside, Scott made a decision regarding grad school that we're both happy with, and things seem to be panning out with the dream job prospect he has been shooting for. One less thing to agonize about. And if things would just start panning out with the dream job prospect I have been shooting for, the love/hate balance might finally shift in favor of the former. I can only hope.