I’ve been working for almost a month now and I miss being a bum with a ferocity I’ve never felt before. Part of it is because I work with some of the most mercurial personalities in the business – even when they taught me in law school they weren’t the friendliest people to begin with. It’s like sitting on a powder keg every single day.
Well, not really – but you do get the picture.
Anyway, I can only guess that life’s like this in all law firms. I read somewhere that the legal profession is the one occupation that values perfection above all. Screw up once, and your career trajectory goes kaput.
Or so they say. As for me, I’m too chicken to test that proposition out. So every day is spent trying to apply what you’ve learned dodging bullets at work while trying to maintain an air of “I know the shit of which I speak.” Hopefully, this convinces the clients, the partners, and that tiny insecure noob paralegal in me.
I’ve more than had my share of faux pas this past month, and as much as I’d like to think I’ve taken my share of soap (pagsasabon, in the vernacular), I’ve been assured by the other associates that I’m still being treated with kid gloves. Hep. Hep. Hooray.
It’s not like home’s that much of a picnic either. In between writing this blog, checking up on work, catching up on personal reading, and catching up on the one million and one things I’ve promised to do since graduating from law school – I’m supposed to be a father to a precocious one year old. Lately, and much to my dismay, that seems to be limited to making sure she gets to sleep on our bed at the same time we do.
This is not usually a successful enterprise. Getting her to sleep means that all light in the room has to be off – no working on anything once we decide to put her to bed. After coaxing her to sleep at midnight, Nicole will wake up at 4 in the morning complaining of an empty bottle and a full diaper. This will repeat itself at 8, by which time I’m dressing up for work and waking up the rest of the room. If Nicole wakes up too much at any of these periods, a long screaming match is de rigeur – first between us and Nicole, and then between my wife and I, with my wife doing most of the screaming for being too slow in making formula in zero light conditions. If I’m lucky, I get a trifecta with my own mother walking in from the apartment next door, saying she woke up because of the baby screaming.
At which point I unleash my secret weapon: I sing songs from her favorite Barney episode. No matter what she’s doing at that point – raising hell or whatnot – Nicole will stop and start jumping up and down (usually on my midsection). Then she’ll be docile and do anything I tell her to do. This of course comes at a steep price. The song will stick in my head the entire night all night as I scream for it to stop.
We do it every day.
We do it when we’re sleeping,
And even when we play.”
– Barney, the stupid purple dinosaur.
While we’re talking about growing, all my friends from my carefree boho days seem to have grown up themselves and have all pretty much disappeared into society’s fabric.
- Miggy, I hear, is in Australia working as a producer for some television network – he rarely answers his IM or his email;
- Tads is a trainer for Honda Philippines;
- JJ is running between Manila and Singapore promoting his in-store radio business;
- Nicky’s doing management work in Verizon;
- Sol is doing magnificent work for Friendster; and
- Phil is now a supervisor at a famous call center doing SysAd work.
Even the more artfully inclined are contributing their bit to society and making waves:
- RA is a noted indie film director;
- Ina’s doing her thing in Denmark;
- Dear, dear Selena’s singing the theme song for Endo with her band Ang Bandang Shirley… and
- Sarah Silverman is fucking Matt Damon.
I guess that’s life at the end of twenty.