As usual, I've come home from OKC horribly nostalgic and contemplating the future of my career. This hodgepodge of schooling/teaching/part-time practice has gone on for a while now, changing only its proportions, and it sounds appealing to be more focused and just do one thing.
So tonight I was playing piano and trying to get closer to sorting out my goals. My thoughts were, generally speaking, "why do I hate litigation?" (I have always felt like my failure to fall in love with litigation was some kind of personal failure)
And then I remembered something.
I remembered Mike's first deposition.
When I first started working at the law office, Mike was a recent graduate still a few weeks away from swearing in. I can remember details of Mike's first big litigation case after becoming a lawyer. And I remember the day he took his first deposition. All suit-clad, Mike and Jeff and opposing counsel and the deponent went into the conference room. And a couple of hours later, opposing counsel, the deponent, Jeff, and an elated Mike emerged.
Mike had been brilliant. There was a kind of cosmic high-five in the air as the guys relived the highlights of the deposition. "What about the one where I asked him . . . ?" And they laughed and told us about the deponent's sheepish squirming.
Mike had crossed a bar, taken on a mantle, carried a torch. And succeeded.
I also remembered my first deposition.
I remember feeling distinctly much much much younger than everyone else. I remember wishing I was the court reporter instead of the attorney. I remember getting all of my exhibits confused. And I remember being so, so happy when it was over.
The redeeming thing about the day was that I spent the afternoon assembling a new bookcase for my office, moving books, matching colors, and running to Target for Windex.
I had crossed a bar, taken on a mantle, carried a torch. And sheepishly squirmed back to the tranquility of my office to play house.