Now, before you start judging, hear me out.  Anyone who is even remotely familiar with the parade of psychopaths populating my romantic life knows that I’ve had no luck in finding The One.  The whole law-degree thing just hasn’t reeled them in like I thought it would.  At this point in my life, I just want to meet a professional, well-educated man and I realized a few months ago that I needed to take more drastic action to make it happen.  And I figured that inflating my boobs to the point where I resemble a pair of engorged cantaloupes resting on a blanched pretzel rod seemed like a good— oh crap, wait, that’s not right.  I was getting myself confused with our favorite litigious ex-Citi siren, Debrahlee Lorenzana, there for a minute.  Sorry.  I’ve just actually been at the office this whole time.

Oh Miss Debrahlee, ardent supporter of workplace fairness, champion of the tight turtleneck set, who is your publicist? Because, honey, that’s who you should be suing.  Did no one advise you?  Did no one sit you down and tell you how to navigate these blog-infested waters—waters where a little Google stalking can take you from being the Norma Rae of the Hot Harassed to Tits on a Stick in 36 hours flat?  Clearly not.  Please, then, for the sake of your lawsuit, for the sake of the 9–13 minutes you have left, take a seat, kick off your Vuitton platform wedges and take heed of the following:

“An Open Letter to Debrahlee Lorenzana,” or “Professional, Well-Educated Men Do Not Marry Tits On a Stick”

Miss Debrahlee, when I first saw the headlines that a lady banker had been fired from Citi for being “too hot,” my first thought was “A hot lady banker?  Is that possible?”  And then it quickly became clear that no, it’s not—unless by “banker,” you mean “person who works in a bank.”  OK, fine, I thought, so you aren’t exactly a rising managing director at Citi—but that doesn’t make what you claimed happen to you any less infuriating.  You’re a working mom in a respectable job who is also naturally full-breasted.  What were you supposed to do?  Tape down your boobs?  Lop ’em off?  As a naturally curvy lady myself, I empathize with the what-to-do-with-the-boobs problem plaguing any victim of a business-casual culture.  If we wear clothes that fit, we look like strippers; if we wear clothes that hide our boobs, we look like fat strippers.  Either way, we’re screwed.  So, yeah, I was on your side, Debrahlee.

And then I saw the video.

Don’t play dumb, Debrahlee—you know which one I mean.  Yes, that one.  The one where you don a tube top and shill for a plastic surgery factory on Strong Island by scooting around the local grocery store holding giant melons up to your chest.  The one where you admit that you want a second boob job so you can achieve your goal of looking like a cross between “Carmen Electra and Pamela Anderson.” The one where you shriek that you just want to look like “tits on a stick” so you can “meet a professional, well-educated man.”

Oh, Lee-Lee, this is where you went tragically wrong.  But not for the reasons most folks think.

I could care less that you’ve had two or three or twelve boob jobs—or any “jobs” for that matter.  I’m all for cosmetic surgery.  If you hate your nose or your flat chest or your weird flap ears, change them.  Hell, if you want to make yourself look like a human blow-up doll or a tiger or a melting wax statue of a horse dressed like a drag queen, have at it.  Do it because you feel ugly, or because you hate the way you look in clothes, or because, yes, you’ve always wanted to look like a tiger. Just please, for the love of God, don’t admit that you’re doing it to meet a guy—much less a “professional, well-educated one.”  Because that’s where you lost the ladies, Debrahlee.

See, when you were just a working mom with a gorgeous body who got fired for getting your sad, old sex-starved bosses all hot and bothered by virtue of your sheer existence, we were on your side.  Even when we found out that the gorgeous body was a product of surgical wizardry, we were still there for you.  After all, who is Citi—or anyone—to punish you for having a hot body lurking under work-appropriate, fashionable clothes, regardless of where that body came from?  You were able to play the victim-of-circumstance card and it was working.  But then you tried to have it both ways.

And you can’t, Debrahlee.

You can either play the female empowerment card, embrace your right to alter your own body and rail against the conservative powers-that-be for subjugating your tasteful expression of your female sexuality…or you can play the just-lookin-for-a-sugar-daddy card, cross your fingers and hope for a spot on the next season of Millionaire Matchmaker.  At this point in your media arc, we don’t know if you’re truly looking for justice or just looking for a guest spot on the Real Housewives of Queens Plaza.  Are you the Madonna or the Whore?  Huh?  HUH?  Because lord knows we can’t have it both ways.  That would just be confusing to us.  And if we’re confused, we can’t root for you—and if we can’t root for you, what’s the point?

I mean, honestly, what kind of background music would the Today Show producers know how to play on your on-air segment?  (A gentle yet inspiring strings section, or something with a sexy beat, maybe some reggaeton?)  Should the Times deign to pick up your story, or are you merely Post-worthy?  And how would we know what side we should take on your tale when we’re out to drinks with the girls?  Or, more importantly, the boys? STOP CONFUSING US!

So that’s where you failed us, Debrahlee.  Or maybe your publicist did.  Either way, you blew it.  Next time, just pick one: Madonna or Whore.  Just whatever you do, don’t blur them.  Because then you might actually be a woman who admits that it’s okay to want to look like tits on a stick and have a decent, white-collar job and get the guy in the end.  The professional, well-educated one.

God forbid.

An excerpt of this essay is also being published today on everyone’s favorite legal tabloid, Above the Law.  Make sure to check it out here!

Now, I know what you’re thinking:  Right, ha, Deal Goggles…Beer Goggles. Whatever.  I’m a professional—I have enough self-control to resist hooking up with some beast at the firm just because we happen to be working on a deal together.

Well, congratulations.  You’re a better person than I am.   You’re also apparently not a Big Firm lawyer and/or anyone who’s ever worked on a real Big Law deal.  See, friends, when you’re on a real Big Law deal—which is to say, when you’ve been at the office for 96 hours straight, are undershowered, overstimulated, and surrounded only by empty Wok ‘n’ Roll containers and second lien intercreditor agreements—whatever shred of self-control you thought you had left has long, long since abandoned you.  You’re lucky if you don’t wind up trying to drown yourself in the handicap toilet down the hall, much less trying to avoid an unexpected, comprising sexual situation with the nearest warm body.  In other words, when you’re in the heat of a deal, all bets are off—and the Deal Goggles are on.  So, please, if you want to circumvent the extra slice of hell I all-too-recently served myself, listen up and consider the following:

1.  Go toward the light. Metaphorically, at least.  This is the cardinal rule of Deal Goggles avoidance.  To illustrate the heart of this lesson, I present a recap of a conversation I just had with my always offensive, usually accurate man-whore friend, Max.  When I relayed my horror about my recent, unexpected deal-time romp with Drew, the newly divorced fifth-year who was stuck in the trenches with me on an insane debt offering that closed a few weeks ago, Max offered the following:

“Your fault.  You didn’t do the Deli Test,” he shrugged.

“What’s the Deli Test?”

“You know, when you’ve been out a bar or whatever and you’re fucked up and you’re gonna hook up with some girl, you make sure to stop at the nearest deli or bodega or whatever before you take her back to your place.”

“…why?”

He looked at me like I was clinically retarded. “So you can see what she looks like under the florescent lights before you get her in a cab.  Tell her you need to stop to get some water or some shit.  If she’s a dog in the light, you bail.”

“You’re repulsive.”

He grinned.  “But I’m right.”

And…he was.  Don’t get me wrong—no one’s expecting you to haul your supervising associate to the local bodega before you sign on to a deal.  But before it heats up, try to spend at least a few minutes chatting with the poor slob, preferably in the daylight, just to get a sense of what you’re really in for.  Because at 72 hours in, when you’re sleep-deprived, delirious and drowning in documents, the Deal Goggles slide right on and that pale, pudgy associate sitting across from you might as well be a Jolie-Pitt spawn as far as you’ll be able to tell.  Trust me—before my deal with Drew started, I’d never looked at him for more than six seconds, much less spoken to him.  But if I’d only taken the time to have a short, clear-headed convo with him before the deal went into overdrive, I might have noticed the moobs lurking under his wrinkled shirt, the chino nut-huggers paired with white socks, the way he sneers at the secretaries and inadvertently picks his nose after every other sentence.  But I didn’t.  And now I’m paying the price.  Don’t let this happen to you—do your diligence.

2.  Avoid Internet porn.  In fact, just avoid the Internet, period.  Picture it: You’re waiting for deal docs to come back from the other side at 3 a.m. and you’ve just spent 20 minutes surfing the Internet, bombarded with images of sexy young things enjoying life in various stages of carefree undress—and then you’re called into a conference call with your supervising associate.  Four minutes in, you start to feel your gaze wander to his hands.  You notice how big and strong they look.  Huh, you hadn’t noticed that before.  Now you can’t stop staring at his hands.  Hm. You start to wonder what they might feel like, say, running down your back as he growls your name in a deep purr and pins you to your desk while— OK, do you see where this is going?  Don’t handicap yourself from the outset.  If you’re going to troll the Internet during deal downtime, fine—just make sure to stick to websites focused on things like health care reform, insects and Jesus.  Venture past that and you’ll be flinging yourself into Deal Goggles territory before you can say “girls gone wild.”

3.  Stay on topic.  As any Big Law veteran can tell you, even the most intense deals involve at least a bit of downtime—usually around 3 a.m.   That’s when the other associates start to wander into each other’s offices looking for a little caffeine and a little company.  You start to gossip a bit, you start to ask a few personal questions, and then before you know it, bam, someone you barely know is telling you how he hates being a lawyer and has always wanted to quit the big city and open up a nursery school in Sedona.  Suddenly, you feel an unexpected familiarity with him—an intimacy, even. You start to think, like I did after a late-night bonding session with Drew about 26 hours into the deal, Hey, I’m feeling a real connection here…maybe I was wrong, maybe this guy’s not the rude, condescending gunner troll that he seemed to be at first, maybe he wants to the same things in life that I do. But guess what?   He doesn’t.   And that “connection” feeling was just the Deal Goggles working overtime. Unless you want them working for you, too, make sure to keep the witching-hour conversations limited to topics you could find on the face of a proxy statement.

4.  Don’t stray from the path.  This is where those hearty types who have managed to avoid Deal Goggles up until now tend to stumble—and I was no exception. A good 72 hours into the deal, I heard a rumor about a “relaxation room” on the 44th floor of the firm, which supposedly is outfitted with a bed, a shower, the works.  I told Drew, he didn’t believe me, and so we set out to find it.  Now, roaming unfamiliar floors of your firm in the middle of the night with your supervising associate on some half-brained “adventure” is idiotic enough; roaming around looking for what’s essentially a bedroom is downright dangerous. Drew and I found the so-called relaxation room all right—it was basically a file room with a cot stuck in the corner.  I don’t remember which one of us sat on the cot first to “see how it felt,” but I do remember that I was one who put my clothes back on first about seven minutes later.  See, I didn’t realize it at the time, but the minute we stepped foot on the elevator to 44, we were goners.  Because as soon as you leave the comfort zone of your office, as soon as all visual reminders of the deal are a few floors away, the Deal Goggles are sealed on tight and you’re past the point of no return.  Which leads us to…

5.  Too late.  You succumbed.  You’re horrified.  Now what? OK, it happens.  You couldn’t resist; the Deal Goggles got the best of you.  At this point, once the deed is done and the goggles come off, one of two things will happen: You’ll be horrified—or you’ll be psyched and ready for round two.  If it’s the latter, good for you; it looks like you’ve found yourself a work-fling.  If, more likely, though, it’s the former, there’s only one way of handling it: Pretend it never happened.  Really, what else can you do?  There’s nothing to explain, nothing to justify.  Take Drew and me.  After our relaxation session, just as we were about to part ways and head off to our respective offices, confused and exhausted, we locked eyes for a second and suddenly started grinning. It hit us at the same time: We sure as hell weren’t in love, we weren’t even in like—we were just two overworked, undersexed drones frenzied with the need for a little human contact at the exact same moment.  What else was there to say?  Call it Deal Goggles, call it desperation, call it delirium—whatever you choose, just call it a night and move on.  Remember, kids, you still have a deal to close.

So, for those of you who have already fallen prey to the temptations of Deal Goggles, know that you’re not alone—and that, with a little effort, you don’t need to falter again.  And for all you non-believers out there who think that you’d never, ever fall for something as pathetic as obvious as so-called Deal Goggles, well, I’m sure you’re right.  But the next time you find yourself stuck at the firm for three days straight, starving, exhausted, rounding your seventh month without sexual contact and trapped on a dead-end doc review with your least favorite associate (you know, the curvy one who just broke up with her boyfriend), do me a favor:  The minute you start imagining what her legs might look like underneath her skirt after you’ve been chatting about hopes and dreams over a 2 a.m. Red Bull, think of me-and then wish yourself luck.  Because trust me, honey, you’re gonna need it.

An excerpt of this essay is also being published today on everyone’s favorite legal tabloid, Above the Law.  Make sure to check it out here!

If you’ve spent any time clicking through the annals of humiliation catalogued on this site, you’ve probably noticed that I’m no stranger to this particular epidemic. The latest episode, though, focuses on my friend, Kirsten, a Big Law mid-level employment litigator trapped in the body of a hot stripper. You may remember Kirsten from her recent and unfortunate dip into married territory-as a visitor, not a local, alas. After that inevitably disastrous affair wrapped itself up, Kirsten did what any heart-bruised, if not quite heart-broken, Big Law associate would do: She planted herself at the office 24-7 and figured, hey, if I can’t get laid, I might as well get hours.

And she did. As luck would have it, she also got the attention of a new lateral employment partner to her firm, Martin. Now, let’s paint a quick picture here: When I say Kirsten is hot, I don’t mean lawyer-hot; I mean fantasy-league, blonde bombshell, silicone-enhanced hot-hot. Martin, on the other hand, could pass for Ben Stiller’s pudgy older cousin-on a good day. Still, when he began stopping by Kirsten’s office every night to chat, some combo of charm, partnership units and daddy issues sparked a crush in her. More than anything, though, after dating a string of unemployed aspiring man-whores, she cherished the attention. And when she found out that Martin had recently been handed divorce papers by his starter wife, she was smitten.

After a couple of weeks, the office pop-ins turned into weekly after-work cocktails. This was more than just flirtation, she told me; this was a real connection. They would have long, soulful talks about everything from firm politics to past relationships to the devastation of rejection. The only problem, though, she said, was that Martin was a supervising partner in her small department, and she felt he was holding back on making a move because he was, well, her boss…and an employment litigator. But when he asked if she wanted to accompany him to a black-tie fundraising event that the firm was co-sponsoring, she knew that they’d reached a turning point. This was his way of testing the waters, of stepping out with her in a formal, open setting. This was big.

To say that Kirsten was obsessed with this fundraiser date would be a travesty of understatement. She bought a new, just-slutty-enough-for-work strapless cocktail dress and took the afternoon off to get ready. When she walked into the venue-a former meatpacking factory that had been converted into a swank hotel-she was looking good, feeling good and ready to take their relationship to the next level. Or at least make out a little.

When she got to the firm’s table, Martin was already there and stood up right away to give her a hello kiss on the cheek. She was glowing. Within minutes, Martin’s leg was brushing up against hers and then, as if fate was reading her mind, a waitress wearing a borderline-hooker satin micro-miniskirt suit appeared at their table with two drinks-a scotch rocks for Martin and a dirty martini for Kirsten. She was giddy. After so many years of losers who barely remembered her name, much less her favorite cocktail, this was finally a real man, a man with class, a man with-

“Babe, they didn’t have Johnnie Blue, sorry. This is Black, I think. Sorry. “

Babe?

Suddenly, the hooker waitress sat down at the empty chair next to Martin and took a sip of the martini-Kirsten’s martini. He looked at Kirsten without making eye contact.  She felt his leg pull away. “Kirsten, this…this is my girlfriend, Carina.”

Kirsten sat there, frozen. Hooker waitress started fondling Martin’s neck.

“And Carina, this is one of our up-and-coming superstars, Kirsten.”

The woman extended her hand to Kirsten across Martin’s chest. “Hey, I’m Carina. I love your necklace.”

“Th- thanks.” Kirsten looked down at the silver charm necklace she’d bought just for tonight. Her head was spinning. This had to be some sort of joke.

No such luck. Over the next half-hour, Kirsten learned that Carina, a forty-something former “dancer” with breast implants so big they made Kirsten’s look like mosquito bites, worked in the accounting department at Martin’s former firm. They had started dating-wouldn’t you know it?-right after Martin’s wife left him earlier this year.

The more the night dragged on, the more Kirsten wondered how she’d managed to let this happen. She was a pro at dating douchebags and over the years had developed an unwitting expertise in spotting the red flags early on when a guy was playing around-with her or on her. But this one had totally blindsided her. What was he trying to prove? Was this some sort of partner-associate power play? He’s an employment litigator for the love of God-could he really be this insane? The worst part, though: She was still attracted to him. But when, after a few rounds of drinks, she felt Martin’s hand gingerly take hold of her knee-and felt a wave of desire with a repulsion chaser rush through her body-she realized she had to get out of there.

She excused herself to the bathroom. She wasn’t going to be humiliated by this vile idiot and his inflatable satin-covered creature-or at least, she wasn’t going to let him see that she was. She’d go splash some water on her face, beg off, go home and drown herself in Ambien. At least she could leave this horror show with her dignity intact. That, of course, was before she found herself half-naked in the middle of the lobby, licking blood off her boss’s neck.

There’s something I’ve learned from years of romantic and sexual humiliation: At the exact moment you think you’ve reached your absolute limit, you can be sure that another brutal dose is about three minutes away. Kirsten, I’d imagine, would probably now agree. Because as soon as she came out of the bathroom, who was standing there but dear old Martin. She couldn’t tell if he’d come to explain himself or to finish the Knee Mauling Olympics he’d started under the table. Either way, she didn’t want to prolong this black-tie circus, so she ignored him and started toward the lobby. Martin jogged after her and finally caught up just as she was passing the entrance to the hotel’s trendy, crowded lobby bar.

Suddenly, though, Kirsten was cut off by a small flock of clacking drunk lawyers spilling out of the bar. One bumped into her so hard that she stumbled in her stilettos, and Martin apparently thought that this would be the prime time to grab her arm. Now, Kirsten says she’s not sure whether Martin was trying to steady her or spin her around toward him, but either way, she jerked herself away and spun back around in a full 360-a tricky move when you’re not drunk, livid, embarrassed and wearing four-inch Jimmy Choos, and a recipe for disaster when you are.

Before she knew what was happening, she lost her footing and fell toward Martin, reaching out to him to steady herself while tried to grab her. Mercifully, she didn’t actually land on her ass. Less mercifully, Martin wasn’t able to steady her in time and she wound up crashing up against him, her open mouth jammed momentarily into his neck. Stunned and lips locked in place against Martin’s neck like some sort of mentally disturbed blowfish, she suddenly tasted something hot and salty in her mouth and realized that Martin was bleeding; her teeth had crashed into his neck when she fell into him and must’ve nicked his skin.

Kirsten later admitted that she didn’t know whether it was shock, confusion, or desire, but instead of just pulling away like any sane person would have done at this point, she pressed her lips further into Martin’s neck, kissing him and yes, gently licking up the blood. Now, one would think that the mental image of yourself French kissing your sleazebag boss’s bloody neck would be enough to send you into an asylum-or at least a new practice group-for good, but Kirsten could only wish that it had ended there. Because when she finally snapped out of the blood-kiss, she pulled back and saw Martin’s stunned eyes immediately fly down from her mouth to her chest. And then she felt the breeze. Because, yes, friends, yes: Not only was she standing there with a mouth wet from kissing Martin’s bloody neck, but also one of her fake boobs had popped out of her strapless dress in the scuffle and was bobbing around in full view, staring him down. In the middle of a hotel lobby. Full of lawyers.

For reasons that I still don’t fully comprehend, Kirsten didn’t actually spontaneously explode into a million pieces from sheer mortification at that exact moment. She did, however, manage to pull up her top, wipe off her mouth and get the hell out of the building. And like the pro that she is, she went to work the next day and didn’t say a peep to Martin about anything that had happened that night. Within barely two months, she lateralled to another firm. She claims it had nothing to do with Martin; she wasn’t getting work in her department and went to a firm with a stronger employment practice-one, presumably, headed up by partners who don’t make it a practice to test the boundaries of employment law claims with their female associates. She never heard from Martin again.

So, on behalf of Big Law associates everywhere, thanks, Kirsten, for giving me the greenlight to share your story. The upside: It’s good to know that I’m not the only lady lawyer out there getting myself mixed up in ridiculous sexual situations with my Big Law superiors. The downside: I’m not the only lady lawyer out there getting myself mixed up in ridiculous sexual situations with my Big Law superiors. And who knows, a cure might indeed be right around the corner. In the meanwhile, though, the next time you find yourself looking forward to a late-night chat with your new partner BFF, just think of Kirsten-and think twice. At the very least, stay the hell away from strapless dresses.

An excerpt of this essay is also being published today on everyone’s favorite legal tabloid, Above the Law.  Make sure to check it out here!

Don’t believe me? Imagine, if you will, the scene that played out in my office a few weeks back: I’d been working on a nightmare bond deal with the most repulsive type of cretin partner imaginable, a deal made all the more ridiculous by the incessant, obnoxious demands from the monumentally horrid senior associate first-chairing for the other side, a 6th-year I’ll call Mitch Haklafti. After a couple of weeks of his tirades, all it took was seeing “Haklafti, Mitch” in my Outlook inbox to set off a fresh round of stomach cramps.

So, around 2 a.m. the night before the deal was set to sign, after a string of all-nighters and increasingly hostile emails from all sides, when I saw a new message arrive from Haklafti, I took another swig of Diet Dr. Pepper and braced myself for what I assumed would be another dose of pain. What I wasn’t prepared for, though, was this—including the 16-point, lavender script font:

“Assorted buddies, daddies and babies: please review and let me know if you have any nits by 4.45 a.m. e.s.t., at which time I will send to the totality of working group. Client hasn’t seen. Usual caveats.

-M.H., The WalruS. goo goo gjoob “

Clearly, this was amazing. Not only was this sent, period, but it was sent to about 50 lawyers and bankers on the working group list, not to mention both clients. After I barked out bits of Dr. Pepper spittle all over my monitor, I felt a ripple of glee tear through me. Honestly, folks, if someone had walked into my office with a bucket full of bottled orgasms right then, I think I would have been less excited. Daddies and babies? Goo goo gjoob, for chrissakes? This was just too good, too humiliating, too…deserved.

Within minutes, though, a cold realization sunk in: Haklafti had seemed like a normal enough guy—a tremendous douchebag, yes, but nothing much out of the ordinary Big Law mold—and he certainly didn’t seem like someone a few breaths away from being fitted for a straitjacket.   I started thinking, Am I really that different from this poor slob?  How many times in the past few years have I been a couple of billable minutes shy of giving in to some humiliating public meltdown?  Four, forty, four hundred?  You just never know.   You never know when you’ll be cranking along in your Big Law cell one day when suddenly that one comment, that one 4 a.m. phone call, that one Sunday-night email will finally push you over the edge.

So, what do you do? What do you do when you feel the walls of your office start to cave in on your brain?   How do you avoid joining Haklafti and his twitching, drooling ilk?   Well, as a seasoned pro when it comes to navigating and—so far, at least—deflecting Haklafti-grade mental meltdowns, allow me to offer the following pointers:

1.   For the love of God, don’t hit “send.”  Recall, if you will, the most mortifying email you’ve ever fired off to an ex-crush/ hook-up/ boss/ lover at 3 a.m. after 11 rounds of margaritas. Now recall how you felt the next morning when you saw it in your outbox and barely remembered typing it. Now multiply the intensity of that feeling by 600. Look, feel free to get your crazy on and type up some insane email whenever the mood strikes—let out all your rage, frustration, lunacy on that keyboard. You’ll feel purged, vindicated, relieved that you had the nerve to type it all out.  And then delete the goddamn thing. No harm, no foul, no need to quit your job and move to another state.

2.   OK, so you did hit send. Time for damage control.  So, you ignored the above. And now your email is being forwarded to every associate within a 5000-mile radius of your firm, not to mention to Lat and co. First things first: Do NOT try to “recall” the email. Cat’s already out of the bag, and worse, it admits defeat. Really, there’s only one way to handle this: Pretend it never happened. Assuming you haven’t snapped to the point where you’re too busy convulsing on the floor to get yourself home, just get up, splash some water on your face and get the hell out of the building. When you come back the next day, make sure to look everyone in the eye and act like things are business as usual. If anyone brings up your incoherent spew from the night before, just laugh good-naturedly, throw your head back and toss out an “Oh man, I know, right? Lack of sleep…” and change the subject immediately. If that fails, just say you have swine flu.

3.   Ignore your firm’s advice at all costs.   If your firm is anything like mine, when they sense that you’re a few days away from showing up at the managing partner’s office with a sawed-off shotgun, they’ll eventually send around a flunky from some associate-relations-type committee to “check in” and give you advice for how to handle work-life balance or some other nonsense. When it was my turn a couple of years back, for example, I was offered the tip to just “take a short walk around the block” when things got rough. Fantastic advice—unless, of course, you were hoping to gain anything other than, say, an extra chance to throw yourself in front of a bus. Remember, the firm is looking out for one thing and one thing only at all times: the firm. Keep that in mind when they come knocking with genius advice on how to preserve your sanity.

4.  Spend time with some Russians.  Maybe a few Poles, too. Stolichnaya. Belvedere. Chopin. This one should be self-explanatory.  Just remember to stay the hell away from your BlackBerry when you do it (see item #1, above).

5.  Polish up those handcuffs.  I get it, the economy’s in the hole. Firms are laying off lawyers left and right. But hey, you still have a job. And if you’ve played your cards right, even with the latest Big Law salary gymnastics, you should still being pulling in a hefty six figures by now, easy. Sure, there may be moments when you may be crushed with envy for your laid-off friends, with their severance-fueled, funemployed lives, while you’re stuck working 100 hours a week. But sooner or later, severance runs out, and it’s nothing but sweatpants, ramen noodles and monster.com for their kind.  But not for you! At least not yet. So, when you’re tempted to throw in the sanity towel, just whip out the Amex and spend like it’s 2005. Drop at least a few thousand on yourself. Maybe on your girlfriend, too. Don’t have one? Go buy one! Because you can. Remember, if you’re stuck wearing those golden handcuffs anyway, might as well keep them nice and shiny. At the very least, they’ll keep you from slitting your wrists.

It’s not an exhaustive list, but it’s a start. And a few months from now, when you’re sitting in your office in the middle of the night, running on zero sleep and a barrel of Red Bull and you feel a crack-up coming on, think of me—and think again.   Or better yet, think of Mitch Haklafti—who, by the way, completely disappeared after the Walrus incident.  Within hours, all emails to him bounced back with a vague out-of-office auto response, and the deal signed and closed without another peep from him.   He’s been removed from his firm’s website and Google’s been no help with any clues.   For all I know, he’s rocking back and forth in the corner of some white-collar psych ward right now, foaming at the mouth and looking for the Eggman.   More likely, though, he’s probably just hanging out in a park somewhere, or maybe on a quiet beach, detoxing from the life that finally broke him and thinking of anything but Big Law and billable hours.

Hm.

The more that I think about it, maybe he wasn’t so insane after all.

An excerpt of this essay is also being published today on everyone’s favorite legal tabloid, Above the Law.  Make sure to check it out here!

As any Big Law victim can tell you, the Cool Partner, like any true predator, takes time to attract and distract his prey before he bares his polished little fangs and goes in for the kill.  He may seduce you at first with hints of an actual personality, an apparent respect for your time, and possibly even a sense of humor.  You’ll marvel at how comfortable you are around him, how energized you feel.  You’ll smile and shake your head in disbelief as you sing his praises to fellow associates who ask why you look sunnier than usual.  You might even find yourself—even just for one brief, indulgent little moment—wondering if you might’ve been wrong all those times you thought this job was nothing but a festering sewer of misery where dreams go to die at the hands of lunatic, unit-holding nerd sadists.  Hell, you might even start waking up happy.

And then reality comes crashing back down.

My first exposure to the lure of the Cool Partner happened as most do—over the phone.  A fifth-year corporate associate named Lauren and I had been staffed on a run-of-the-mill bond offering headed up by Kurt Henson, a forty-something equity partner in the corp fin group whom neither of us had ever met.  From the very first status conference call, we were blown away by just how…well, cool Kurt seemed.  He was more than affable, quick with a few inside jokes, super-responsive and blissfully laid-back.  He apparently had a slew of new-ish kids at home and told us that he tried to work from home as often as he could—and stressed that he had no problem with us doing the same.  And best of all, he really seemed to make an effort to get us out the door as early as possible—which he also took great pains to reiterate at every turn.  As in: “My only goal tonight is to get you guys out of here,” or “I don’t want you two working on the weekend if it can be helped. That’s not how I roll.”

Now, we didn’t realize it at the time, but Lauren and I were already being smacked in the face with a few Canada-sized red flags.  See, one of the hallmarks of the Cool Partner is a pathological need to be liked, which often manifests itself in a few stock routines.  One is the “working from home” bit.  Of course they work from home.  You can’t be a true Cool Partner without being a super-dad-family-man-work-life-balancer-extraordinaire—the most common front for the Cool Partner’s characteristic categorical avoidance of (i) actual work, (ii) the office, and (iii) anyone who might notice the avoidance of (i) and (ii).  What should have been even more telling, though, was Kurt’s “that’s not how I roll” act.  One of the surest signs you’ve got a Cool Partner on your hands is a series of repeated, unsolicited self-assertions of just how not douchey he is.  And, just like when your new girlfriend suddenly blurts out that she’s “never cheated on you, just so you know,” or when some wild-eyed man, say, pushes you into a van filled with hacksaws and severed feet and assures you, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you,” you can pretty much count on being royally screwed from that point forward.

Still, despite the red flags, within only a couple of days, Kurt’s easygoing, über-camaraderie shtick had lulled Lauren and me into trusting submission.  We were loyal fans, willing subjects.  And, more than anything, we couldn’t believe our luck that finally, finally, we were working with someone who felt more like a peer than a Partner.

And then Satan showed up.

After a week of long but sane days getting the bond offering up to speed, Lauren and I steadied ourselves on Friday for a weekend of work.  Turns out, though, there was no need—Kurt called around 7 to tell us that we were free to go; he had just spoken with the client and they weren’t going to have the documents back in our hands until Tuesday at the earliest, so we were off the hook for the weekend. Nice! After a happily unexpected, last-minute night out with a few friends, I got home around midnight, tired but energized by my newfound good work-karma.  I barely noticed when my Blackberry dinged with an email message from Lauren.  Finally, I picked it up, nightcap in hand, and checked the email.  All it said: “We’re fucked.”  Huh?

Just then, my phone rang—my home phone, a number that I’m fairly sure I’ve only ever given out to my doorman and possibly my mother.  Before I could even say hello—

“WHERE ARE YOU?”

“What? I’m—  Kurt?  How did you get this number?”

“Decided to take the night off, did we?“

“What?  No, um, I’m—  You told us we could go home.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Um… but you did.  Just a few hours ago— “

“ARE YOU CONTRADICTING ME?!”

It suddenly occurred to me that this might be some sort of Big Law hazing.  A secret joke, maybe?  Because this didn’t sound at all like our Kurt—not cool Uncle Kurt.  Unless Uncle Kurt was somehow…bipolar?

“Um, no.  Kurt, I mean, I’m sorry if there was a miscommunica— “

“I don’t even know what to say to you.  I don’t know how I could’ve been more clear.  Are you stupid?  Are you both stupid?  Is that it?”

Looks like Lauren had been conferenced in to the call before Kurt hunted me down.  She piped up, “Kurt, I think there’s been a…misunderstanding.  You told us to go pencils down until Tuesday, so we went home.  I’m not sure what you want from us.”

“NOT SURE? I wanted the goddamn offering memo turned tonight, that’s what I want from you!”

“But,” Lauren stammered, “you didn’t— “

“Do you know what I’ve been doing for the past two hours, ladies?  I’ve been marking up the offering memo and entering the goddamn changes myself.  I am a partner; I shouldn’t have to be doing that!”

“No, no, you shouldn’t,” Lauren tried, “We can— “

“I AM A PARTNER!” He sounded like he was starting to foam at the mouth.

“Look, Kurt— “

“A PARTNER!  Do you understand that?!”

Oh, we understand it alright. Finally, after a few more minutes of reiterating his job title and raging at us for what basically amounted to the crime of not being psychic, Kurt slammed down the phone, while I sat down and watched the trust and hopes that I’d pinned on him come crashing down around me as it became brutally obvious that we’d been duped.  Despite his warm, shiny façade, Kurt had turned out to be nothing more than your run-of-the-mill, psychopath prick partner—a Big Law wolf in sheep’s clothing.  Deceptively cool clothing.

The next seven or eight days passed by in a round-the-clock haze of pain.  Four out of every five phone calls from Kurt eventually devolved, no matter what the topic, into the same basic script: the mutual realization that Kurt had forgotten to tell us to do something, followed by him screaming “Are you stupid?” then, “Really, are you stupid?!” followed by a protracted sigh and some muttering about how he’d have to make sure to be more clear when dealing with associates prone to such incompetence.  And once a day or so, he’d also make sure to throw at least one of us under the bus in front of the client or opposing counsel for one of his obvious mistakes, just to keep things nice and well-rounded.

But, then, then we’d get that other phone call—that one out of every five. There, we’d get Uncle Kurt back—good ol’ bipolar, recently-back-on-his-meds Uncle Kurt, who, despite having just humiliated us for some reason or another, would open up the call with “My favorite ladies!  What’s the word down there?  Everything cool?”  Um, let’s see:  No.  No, everything’s not “cool,” you schizophrenic lunatic douchebag.  Things are pretty goddamn far from cool. After these calls, I found it best to take a few moments to duck under my desk to rock back and forth in a ball and wonder how I ever allowed this Machiavellian oxymoron on legs to give me hope that this job wasn’t the kind that eventually finds you…rocking backing and forth in a ball under your desk.

And see, friends, there you have the beauty—and the mystery—of the Cool Partner: Even after they’ve broken you, you’re still never quite sure if they actually buy their own hype.  Maybe, just maybe, Cool Partners are insane enough to think that they’re just decent guys, men of the people who stand out from the archetype of the stiff, paternalistic Big Law partner.  Maybe their charm offensive isn’t just a thinly veiled attempt to draw you closer only for purposes of more effectively tearing you to shreds.  Maybe “Cool Partner” is really just another term for “borderline personality disorder”—and Kurt and his ilk should have our pity rather than our boiling disdain.

Then again, maybe not.  Because at the end of the day, when it comes to the myth of the Cool Partner, take it from one who’s been there: The only thing we’ll ever know for sure is that “cool” doesn’t have a damn thing to do with it.

An excerpt of this essay is also being published today on everyone’s favorite legal tabloid, Above the Law.  Make sure to check it out here!

Just last Thursday, I was at a happy hour with a few guys from work when one, a married finance associate named Carson, suddenly came back from the bar, flushed and jittery.  He claimed that a woman had just sidled up next to him, put her hand next to his, fingered his wedding ring and cooed out of the blue, “I think married men are sexy.”  Carson, a sweet, former engineer and admitted card-carrying nerd, was so flustered that he took off without even taking the drink he’d just bought.  So, obviously, the woman was a hooker…right?  Who else would come up to a skinny, bling-free dork at a bar and lay down a line like that?  Why not target the group of buzzed, Brioni-bearing bankers two feet down?  Or could it be that this woman actually just had…a thing for nerdy married lawyers?  A niche fetish, if you will?  Sort of like those women who only date death-row inmates and convicted arsonists?

I chalked it up to a random anecdote and put it out of my mind.  But then, just a couple of days later, at dinner with my friend, Kirsten, a single, fourth-year Big Law employment litigator with a lawyer’s brain and a stripper’s body, I started to wonder.  I was telling her about my latest experiment in humiliation—one that found me crushing on (and then promptly crushed by) a charming, flirtatious client who turned out to be covertly engaged—and she actually put down her watermelon mojito mid-sip, shot me a look and told me I should’ve just “gone for it.”  When I asked what exactly there was to “go for” in this situation, she shrugged and looked down.

“I don’t know.  It’s just easier.”  She then told me that she was in the middle of a “successful” affair with a married associate at her old firm.  She explained that she wasn’t particularly head-over-heels, but the arrangement worked just fine because, after working insane hours week after week, she was able to get what she wanted and knew where she stood.  And in case I was wondering, yes, she was the one who targeted him.  My thoughts shot back to Carson and his fingered wedding ring.  It was my turn to put down the drink.

Now, let’s be clear for a second: I’m not one for moralizing.  If you want to play in the married end of the pool, have at it; it’s just not my particular scene.  When I meet a new guy at work and notice that he’s sporting The Ring (or its close relative, The Fiancée), I immediately place him in a new mental league of potential romantic partners—a league that includes gay guys, straight girls and convicted sex offenders.  I’m just not interested—not, I admit, because I have such a deep and abiding respect for the ring, but because, frankly, what’s in it for me?  What’s the upside for me of being the “other woman”?  I don’t particularly need a sugar daddy and if I’m going to have a no-strings, go-nowhere, sex-romp “relationship” with a guy, well, that’s what 25-year-old bartenders, aspiring actor-writer-musicians and the occasional summer associate—not puffy, middle-aged, overworked lawyers—are for.

Then again, maybe I’m just scarred.  Because, despite Kirsten’s strained endorsement, I can tell you first-hand from my one disastrous experience with (dis)respecting the ring within the halls of Big Law: It’s not easier.  And if you’re not careful—and are anything like me—it can also leave you sitting in your office, exhausted, listening to the hysterical, slurred sobs of an unhinged lunatic calling you from a coat closet in the middle of the night.

Recall for a moment Ben, my fellow Big Law drone and sort-of-friend from law school who’s best remembered around these parts for his star turn in the night of vodka-inspired debauchery that played out on the floor of my office several months back.   After the unexpected night of office sexing, Ben surprised me the next day with a stunning bouquet of whore flowers, complete with an equally stunning note.  In the days that followed, he called every couple of hours, confessing his affection and desire to see me again and…the fact that he actually was “technically” engaged to a girl he’d been dating since college.

The minute his flimsy admission dribbled out, I felt so pathetic.  I should’ve known.  Of course.  Of course he was too good to be true.  I told Ben not to contact me again, threw his goddamn flowers in the garbage and chalked the incident up to temporary insanity (and boredom…and a desperate need for human contact…).  I figured I’d never hear from him again.  And then I woke up the next day to 21 missed calls on my cell phone—all hang-ups, all from Ben, and all left between midnight and 7 a.m.  He must have finally passed out at that point, because the phone didn’t start ringing until about four hours later.  The next time he called, I picked up.  He sounded drunk.  At 11 a.m.  On a Tuesday.

He told me that he couldn’t stop thinking about me and insisted that I had it all wrong when it came to the “situation” between him and his fiancée.

“It’s just that, she’s kind of…zaftig,” he offered.

“What?”

“She’s…you know, big.  She’s a big girl.  Like heavier, I mean.”

“Jesus Christ, Ben, I know what ‘zaftig’ means.  Why— why are you telling me this?”

“It’s just that, I know it sounds weird, but she actually wouldn’t mind.”

“Wouldn’t mind…?”

“Wouldn’t mind if you and me, you know.  She’s actually a lot more understanding than you’d think. You’d be surprised.”

Hm.  You bet.  After about 10 minutes of this (un)amusing (non)banter, where Ben tried to convince me to see him again, and where I tried to pretend that my life was something I was watching on TV instead of actually living, he finally dropped the bomb.

“It’s just that, well, I think I’m maybe 25% in love with you.”

And there it was.  Just when I thought my capacity for pathetic loserdom couldn’t get any bigger, I found myself sitting in an office I hated, wasting a good .3 billables of my life listening to the sputtering ramblings of a delusional, soon-to-be-married baby lawyer who apparently never got the memo that when you drop the “L” word to a girl you’re trying to convince to engage in an affair, try to limit the expression of devotion to just one qualifier.  At the very least, try to bump the in-love-ness up to 49%.

“Ben, I have to go.  If you—“

“No!  Look, it’s just that…“  He sounded like he was starting to hyperventilate.

“What?”

“It’s just that…”  His voice was almost twisting into a shriek.

“OK, look, I’m going to hang up now—“

“It’s just that my dad could have just kept banging his secretary forever instead of leaving us and my mom wouldn’t have cared, you know?  He could’ve just had his piece on the side and everyone would have been happy, you know?”

Oh, I know, Ben.  I know.

I hung up and exhaled.  So, is this really all that’s in the cards for a single girl working in Big Law at this point—an invitation to be someone’s mistress?  Is this why I went to law school?  I thought the cliché of dating married lawyers was reserved for gold-digging secretaries and maybe the occasional paralegal—is that really the league I’m in?  The “piece-on-the-side” league?  Then again, maybe Kirsten had it right.  Maybe dating a married guy isn’t as taboo as it feels.  Maybe this whole respecting-the-ring thing isn’t worth the trouble when you’re the only one doing it.  Maybe I should’ve just swallowed my pride and had a go with Ben.

I still don’t know the answer for sure.  I do know, though, that any doubts I had about pushing Ben away were put promptly to bed the next morning when I listened to my voicemail.  This time, he’d only called once.  The message was hard to make out, mostly because he was slurring his words—which made sense once he told me that he was sitting in a coat closet in his fiancée’s apartment while her girlfriends were over for a pumpkin-carving party.  Not to worry, though, he told me—he had a box of wine in there with him to keep him company.  After telling me he “hoped I was well” and repeating his name about six times in between a few muffled slurps, he lowered his voice and paused for a good ten seconds. Then:

“Full discloshhure: I’m in my boxers right now.  So, you shhuh— you shhhould call me.  OK, bye.”

Shockingly, I didn’t call him.  And I never heard from him again.  Last I heard, he’d been fired from his Big Law job right before the first waves of layoffs started crashing through law firms a few months ago, had moved across the country and was enrolled in an LLM program.  Oh, and is getting married this July to the same (zaftig) (infinitely understanding) fiancée.

So, no, friends, after all that, I still can’t say whether the Bens, the Kirstens, the happy-hour-ladies-on-the-prowl are right—whether the almighty ring is worth any respect, in Big Law or beyond.  The one thing I am sure of, though: It sure as hell ain’t worth the trouble it takes to find out.

An excerpt of this essay is also being published today on everyone’s favorite legal tabloid, Above the Law.  Make sure to check it out here!

One small issue, though: There’s no one to crush on at my firm—hell, within a mile of my firm, it seems.  After you weed out the lawyers who aren’t indisputably trollish or creepy or latent pervs, only a handful of possibilities are left.

I guess there’s always Pete, my immediate supervisor and work buddy. He’s a great guy, cute in a sort-of asexual hipster way, and has good hair and a mellow, easy-going personality that’s a nice foil to my more manic vibe.  But he’s happily married and just had a kid—very look but don’t touch, which kind of kills the point of having a crush.  Part of the thrill is the possibility that something actually could happen, isn’t it?  OK, forget Pete. The only other candidate, then, might be Alex, a newly minted partner who’s genuinely lawyer-hot, just dickish enough to make him that much hotter, and definitely single. Only problem is, he’s one of the most socially awkward lawyers in the building, notoriously avoids eye contact with women, and last I heard, lives in a two-story house with his parents.

So.  That’s it: a married, asexual dad and a socially retarded powder keg who may or may not live with his mom.  This is depressing even me.  The upshot is becoming painfully clear: If I want a work crush, I need to move on to my clients.

Now, let’s have a reality check for a minute: It’s not like my client list is brimming with alluring, charming sexy young things—or sexy old things, for that matter.  It’s mostly populated by bloated, irritable associate general counsels and your standard assortment of game-free i-bankers.

There is, however, Phil P.  He’s a junior banker who I’ve spent about 900 hours with on the phone over the past few months slogging through a ridiculous, on-again-off-again nightmare of a deal.  I’ve always been struck by how funny and charming and nice he seemed.  I’ve also noticed lately that our conversations and emails have been getting more personal and decidedly more flirtatious—so much so that I actually wondered at one point if they were borderline inappropriate (and mind you, this is coming from a girl who once did this). Inappropriate or not, he definitely has all the makings of a perfect work crush—except I have no idea what he looks like.  We’ve never met in person.  And even Google Images has been no help. Basically, all I have to go on is his voice.  Yes, I am that much of a loser: I have the functional equivalent of a crush on a radio ad.

Things started looking up, though, a few days ago when I got an out-of-the-blue email from Justin, a finance associate in my year at the firm: “Hey, Phil P____ says hi.  (Old friend from b-school.)  Going to drinks Thurs night, wanna join?”

It was a like a bomb went off in my stomach. I’ve been thinking about Phil for a few days now, bemoaning the fact that we’ll probably never meet, and then this literally falls into my lap?  This can’t be just a coincidence, but…what else could it be?  See, this sort of stuff doesn’t usually happen to me.  I don’t have much luck with fate.  I thought The Secret was a scam.  But there it was: Drinks on Thursday.  With the new crush.

Now, friends, I know the drill.  This is the part of the story where, if history’s any guide, I’m supposed to sweep into the bar on Thursday night, all dolled up in my sexiest business casual, lock eyes with the unseen crush and see that he’s…morbidly obese.  Or balancing a hooker on his lap.  Or wearing flip-flops and carrying a box of porn.  Right?  Well, sorry to disappoint, but Phil P. was pretty damn perfect—just the right amount of dork mixed in with sparkly eyes, a quick smile, and the same crush-worthy personality from the phone.  He was hard-core flirting, I was flirting back and the crush was in overdrive—so much so that I had to check myself. This couldn’t actually be real, right?  I mean, a guy can’t possibly be this charming, this cute, this seemingly interested and not actually be secretly insane, or married, or some sort of dormant serial killer, can he?

As it turns out, no, he can’t.

After a couple of hours, a couple of drinks, and a couple of “accidental” hand-on-my-leg grazes, the inevitable happened: Phil’s BlackBerry pulled him back to the office around 10:30 p.m. (Love those i-bankers.)  We headed out and he gave me a quick hug (!) and a wink goodbye and within minutes of getting home, my BlackBerry buzzed with an email from him thanking Justin and I for the drinks (which were courtesy of the firm; hell, he’s a client, right?) and suggesting we do it again soon.  As I fell asleep, grinning, I wondered if tomorrow would be too soon.

And then, when I woke up, the unimaginable happened: There was a voicemail from Phil on my cell phone. Well, I guess it’s not unimaginable that a client would call me on my cell phone at 6:30 in the morning, but this was different.  This was someone I actually wanted to hear from.  The message was sweet and rambling and maddeningly vague: “Hey, I’m sorry it’s so early but—it’s Phil, by the way, sorry—but I just had something I wanted to ask you and I didn’t want to wait and I thought maybe you’d be up and…hey, why aren’t you at the office, right?  Just kidding.  That was so lame, sorry, it’s early.  Um, well, I guess if you could give me a call when you get a chance today, that’d be great.  OK, great finally meeting you last night, by the way, again.  OK, bye.  Oh!  Sorry, and you can totally call my cell if you don’t get me in the office—it’s______.  OK, bye. Talk to you later.”

Lying in bed, listening to the message over again a couple of times, I was speechless, beaming.  This was a hundred times better than a crush; this was turning real.  I headed to the office and waited a couple of hours to call Phil (don’t want to seem too eager, right?).  He picked up right away and after we made small (flirty) (charming) talk for a few minutes, he dove right in.

“Hey, so, this is kind of awkward, but I just wanted to ask you something.”

Awww, he’s embarrassed.  So adorable!

“If this is inappropriate, by the way, just tell me to shut up, OK?  Seriously, just say ‘Phil, shut the F up,’ OK?”

Oh God, wait, is it wildly inappropriate to date the clients?  Crap, I think I remember something about that on the MPRE.  I guess I could talk to the billing partner about it…

“It’s just that you seem, um, really cool and well put together, and…”

What a sweetie!  He noticed!

“…and I’m on my way to Grand Cayman right now, and…”

Grand— huh?

“…it’s just—oh man, this is really retarded.  But, it’s my, um, fiancée’s birthday tomorrow and I totally forgot and she went, like, ape-shit insane, so I booked a last-minute trip for the weekend because she loves the beach there…”

Huh.

“…and the hotel’s supposed to have this sick spa and I was wondering if you could suggest a few, you know, treatments for her, like to surprise her? My secretary’s not into any of that stuff, so I didn’t know who to ask.  I know she likes facials, I think?  Those are good, right?”

And so it went.

After about four more minutes of listening to my heart sink, I hung up the phone, wondered if it was possible to strangle yourself with a phone wire, and waited for the sound of history repeating itself—only to be interrupted by an email ding.  From Phil.  What the hell does he want now?  Suggestions for a good gyno?

“Hey, thx again for the spa stuff, sounds awesome. She’ll love it!!!  Forgot to mention, but I’ve asked Anand to send you an engagement letter to work your magic on for a quick advisory gig that got ginned up last night. Can you throw together a conf. agmt. for it, too?  He’ll explain the deets.  Sorry for the Friday dump, but I need it back by Sunday night, since I’ll be more tied up than I thought over the weekend, obvs   Thx again, ur the best!!!  Drinks soon!”

The Friday dump, indeed.

With that, I closed my door, mentally slapped myself, and steadied myself for a long night of hot-and-heavy drafting.  And vowed that if I ever again have the brilliant idea to solve all of my Big Law woes by developing a crush at work, I’ll at least have the good sense to limit it to voices, cartoon characters, and maybe the occasional anonymous blogger.  The kind that don’t have faces, don’t have fiancées, don’t have billing numbers.  The kind that don’t keep you at the office late and let you get home early.  So you can crawl into bed.  Alone.  Just in time for a Law & Order marathon.

An excerpt of this essay is also being published today on everyone’s favorite legal tabloid, Above the Law.  Make sure to check it out here!

Let’s back up a bit, no?

It’s no particular surprise that things in Law Firm Land have been a little less sunny than usual lately.  In the past couple of months alone, my firm has chucked out pretty much everything but the furniture and then, just in case the remaining suckers associates were getting too used to showering at home on a regular basis, the powers-that-be have made sure that we’re now racking up the billables at a near-inhuman pace.

So, when a new deal that I’d been hamster-wheeling on for eleven straight days died a sudden death late last week, I figured I’d take advantage of the lull, reward myself for the pain of the past few weeks—months? years?—and treat myself to something over-the-top luxurious. Something that makes me feel grateful that I still have a paycheck.  I wanted it to be ridiculously indulgent. I wanted it to be stupidly expensive. I wanted it, more than anything else, to be relaxing.

That was the first mistake.

Being utterly incapable of relaxing on my own, I decided that my big treat to myself would be a $395, two-hour “Ultimate Body Massage” at the most resplendently posh hotel spa in town.  From the minute I walked in, everything was perfect.  The lilac-scented steam room, the heated pool, even the free slippers were conspiring mercifully to make me shed my Big Law stresses, even if just for an afternoon.  And to top it all off, the massage therapist, David, was easily one of the hands-down hottest guys I think I’d ever seen—and no, I’m not talking about lawyer-hot; I’m talking about no-holds-barred, real-world, aspiring-actor hot.  So, lying there face-down on the massage table, naked and covered only by a silky, thin sheet while this Adonis started running his hands across my tired, broken little body, I shoved all thoughts of proxy statements, prick partners, and billable hours out of my head and settled in for a perfect two hours.

After the first hour of bliss, David rolled me over onto my back, placing a buckwheat eye mask onto my face to block out any light.  “Sooo,” he purred, “How are we feeling?”

Oh God, his voice is so soooothing.  Mmmm.

“Mmmmmmm.”

“Good, good.”

I was waiting for his hands to start going at it again, but there was nothing.  I tried “mmm”-ing again, but didn’t hear any movement.  Finally, his honey voice broke the silence.

“So, can I ask you something?”

I croaked out an “mmm-hm.”  Please God don’t let this be a legal question.

“I’m wondering if you’d like to try something.”

Oh. That was unexpected.  Why would he ask me— oh hey, WAIT, is he getting at what I think he might be getting at?  Could this actually be one of those hush-hush “happy ending” massages for ladies I heard about a while back—the ones I’ve never had the time (or the nerve) to pursue?  But wait, aren’t they usually at, like, hidden day spas in Chinatown where you have to ask for “Sved” and navigate some sort of secret handshake to get the party started?  I don’t think I gave off that kind of vibe when I introduced myself to David.  Hell, I don’t even think I made eye contact.  But maybe I seem so tightly wound that he can just sense the need?  Hm.  Well, either way, I’m…I’m game.  I think.

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, of course,” David continued, all calm.

“No, well, it’s—”

“But I actually used to be in medical school, so.”

Medical school?  What the hell does that have to do with anything?

“It might feel…strange at first, but if you give in to it, I think you’re really going to experience something.”

Huh.  This isn’t quite going where I thought it would.

“Um, well, what…what is it?”

“Let me show you!” I could feel David smiling, his energy rising. “Let me just put on some gloves real quick.”

And now, friends, I’d like to take a moment to reiterate the obvious: The part of your day that finds you lying naked on a table, blindfolded, listening to the snap of latex gloves sliding on when you’re not, say, about to undergo abdominal surgery, is the part when you fling yourself off the table and get the hell out of the building.  But lo, I just sat there, frozen and blinded by buckwheat.

That, clearly, was the second mistake.

Before I knew it, David was hovering next to me, explaining that he was about to perform a “mouth massage.”  He started by gently poking a latex-covered finger into my mouth —“I know it sounds weird, I know it feels strange!”— and telling me to, yes, lightly suck his finger to “get my mouth loosened up.”  Unbelievably, I went along with it.  From there, he proceeded to stick a few more fingers into my mouth, rubbing my inner cheeks and gum lines, while I lay there with my mouth open as far as it would go, speechless and paralyzed.  Within minutes, he’d managed to work his whole hand and part of his forearm into my mouth and was starting to “massage” the back of my throat—which, wouldn’t you know it, feels remarkably like being choked.  OK, enough.  This is beyond insane.  I let out a faint protesting moan, the kind you might make at the dentist.

“Just give in to it!” he softly urged.

I tried to close my mouth—without much luck.

“Give in to it!”

Um, no, sorry, still not happening, guy.

“GIVE IN TO IT!”

Oh Jesus Christ, give in to what, you lunatic?  The fact that you have a hand the size of my leg jammed into my mouth? Or the fact that I’m such an unbelievable goddamn loser that I’m actually paying $400 to let it happen?

Finally, I just sat up, pulled my throat off his hand, swatted off the eye mask and hopped off the table, sheets and all, and waddled back to the changing room in disgrace.  Sitting in the locker room, six hundred times more tense than I was when I walked in, I couldn’t figure out why I’d let myself stay glued to that table, fully allowing this surreal oral assault to play itself out.  In my “real” life, my Big Law life, I’m a confident, assertive pain in the ass, if anything—why did I suddenly become so meek?  Or was I just trying to prove something to myself—that I actually am capable of “giving in to it,” of relaxing against all odds (the least of which being a scenario that involves some idiot pawing the back of my throat)?  Are things truly that bad in my world?  Have the slithering fingers of Big Law really reached out so far that they’ve finally choked the last breath out of any sense of self I used to have?

The only thing I can say for sure at this point is please.  Just please, the next time you’re lying around with a little time to spare, cash to burn, and a jonesing for some hard-core pampering, do yourself a favor and learn from my mistakes: Just go back to the office. At least there, when you find yourself with more than you can handle suddenly crammed down your throat, you can be sure that you’ll have plenty of company.

An excerpt of this essay is also being published today on everyone’s favorite legal tabloid, Above the Law.  Make sure to check it out here!

Don’t get me wrong, when it became obvious that my firm was conducting another round of layoffs, I wasn’t hoping to be axed.  My day-to-day may indeed be a perverse merry-go-round of corporate inanity, bruising ego slams, romantic nonstarters, and bleak yearnings for my pre-BigLaw life, but when the time comes to end this cycle of misery, I want to do it on my own terms.  Preferably with health insurance.  So, when I found out that I wasn’t one of the Laid Off, I wasn’t disappointed—but I wasn’t exactly pleased, either.  More than anything, I was just relieved that the waiting was over.

But now, in the aftermath of the layoffs, I can’t help but wonder if that relief was misplaced.   If morale at my firm was low before the latest slaughter, the atmosphere now is pretty much unbearable.  Within a matter of days, most of us went from billing a few hours a day, tops, to not being at the office for a few hours a day, tops.  And yes, I get it, it’s BigLaw—it’s not supposed to be a day-spa experience, in any economy—but now, now, we’re supposed to be extra-super grateful for the sadistic pace.  We’re supposed to bend over cheerily and smile while the firm’s powers-that-be alternately punish us, and then expect gratitude for, the very fact that we still have jobs.  In the past few weeks, even the most docile partners I work with have had a taunting, lupine shine in their eyes every time they’ve doled out work on a Friday at 6 p.m., or announced an absurdly artificial deadline, or passed me in the hall at 5 p.m. as they were heading home and I was rounding midday. Just yesterday, one asked me if I was free to help on a new matter—and when I responded that 100% of my time was already committed, I could hear his smirk through the phone as he asked me to “define 100%.” (Note: you’re screwed no matter how you answer this one.) Now, regardless of how ridiculous, how unreasonable, how idiotic the demands of some prick partner may be, the subtext is the same: “Don’t like it? What are you gonna do—leave?”

And that’s just it.  I’m not going to leave.  Not now, anyway.  Call me stiflingly risk-averse, call me masochistic, call me addicted to the ability to pay my rent, but I’ll admit that I just don’t have the balls (well, literally and figuratively) to ups and quit in a depression.  I know, I know—I understand the whole “leave-now-because-before-you-know-it-you’ll-be-37-and-still-toiling-away-at-a-job-you-hate” argument.  And hell, I’m ready to take a pay cut and move out of BigLaw right now to a job that might let me have a life and a shot at not being miserable—if that job existed anymore. Back in the day, I’d have been able to slide into pretty much any low-key legal job I wanted at this point.  But now?  Now, ex-BigLaw players are dialing down their resumes and duking it out for night-shift doc review temp jobs.  And still getting dinged.  My problem isn’t the golden handcuffs themselves; it’s that I just can’t find the goddamn keys to take them off.

And this is where the recent casualties of BigLaw layoffs may actually have one up on those of us who haven’t (yet) been shown the door.  Well, OK, first let’s have a quick reality check—I know that being laid off is hideous and traumatic.  I don’t envy my laid-off colleagues for their uncertainty over where their next paycheck may be coming from, or their stagnant mountains of student debt, or their cringing awareness that a few months’ severance runs out all too soon.  I’m not delusional.  But I will say that whether or not the Laid Off were ready to ditch those golden handcuffs, at least they’re off.  They’re off.  Unlike those of us still racking up insane hours doing work we can’t stand for manipulative sadists, whining about how miserable we are, but acknowledging that we’re too afraid to leave, the Laid Off aren’t stuck in this catch-22.  They don’t have to fantasize about having free time to see their families, or finish that screenplay, or backpack through Thailand, or sleep in for a week or three; they can actually just go do it.  Sure, that freedom comes with its own set of crippling anxieties, but the immediate point is: They don’t need to worry about wrangling up the courage to make that leap out of BigLaw—they’re already out.  That alone is worth a little envy, no matter how they got there.

So, at the end of the day, who are the bigger suckers in this situation?  I don’t really know—all I do know is that a few days after my firm’s latest layoffs, I found myself stuck in a conference room at 3 a.m., alone, eating three-day-old chicken parm with my fingers out of an aluminum tin, waiting for comments on the nine-hundredth draft of a mind-crushingly boring document that no one but me and about six other lawyers cares about or will ever read, wracked with stomach-churning anxiety that my life is passing me by just so that I can help make some CEO I’ll never meet more money than I’ll ever know in my lifetime.  Is that really any less humiliating—or more enviable—than being…laid off from that job?  Tell you what: If I ever find myself in a position to learn the answer firsthand, I promise I’ll let you know.  Right after I get back from Thailand.

An excerpt of this essay is also being published today on everyone’s favorite legal tabloid, Above the Law.  Make sure to check it out here!

You see, the powers that be at my firm had called a meeting that day.  Not just a meeting, but the meeting—the one to address the recent, escalating fear crippling the associate ranks.  True, BigLaw can hardly be described as an oasis of calm in any economy, but the paranoia around my firm lately has been palpable.  In the past few weeks, each time I’ve heard a knock on my office door before 9 a.m., or received a call from an extension I didn’t recognize, or opened an email addressed to “All Associates-USA,” I’ve felt my body click into a fleeting state of stomach-sinking paralysis, wondering whether I’m about to be told that I’m officially being relieved of my obligation to show up for work on a daily basis. Call me neurotic, but the massive stealth layoffs ripping through my firm lately—paired nicely with radio silence from the firm’s management—can make a girl a little jumpy.

Turns out, though, my fears were totally unfounded.  Because, you see, last Thursday, the firm finally stepped up and started talking. They held the meeting—a self-styled Q&A forum for all associates where the firm’s associate management committee promised to address several “topics of interest.”  And oh, how they did.  They cut through the typical administrative nonsense and dove right into the big topic.  The topic that’s undoubtedly been clouding their minds in the past few weeks. The topic that apparently dwarfs any and all other possible topics that might be of interest to any associate. Anywhere. The topic so relevant, so timely, that it merited a good 25-minute discussion.  That’s right, friends, my firm finally opened up and addressed this, the Most Important Topic Facing BigLaw Today: whether the firm should adopt a Casual Fridays dress code.

At first, we thought it was a joke, but when the office managing partner squared his jaw and started explaining with a straight face that the firm was considering a Casual Fridays policy whereby associates would be “allowed” to wear jeans one Friday per month, on the condition that they make a small donation to a charity of the firm’s choosing, we realized that this was pathetically real.  I looked around the room at the hundred or so associates gathered and saw a throng of slack jaws and mild scowls that no doubt mirrored my own.  We all sat there like frozen idiots while management flunky after flunky weighed in on the pros and cons of the dress code situation. But when Astrid, a junior partner on the associate management committee, suddenly stood up and launched into a nasal diatribe about how a Casual Fridays dress code might be “distracting” because—well, she won’t speak for anyone else, but at least as far as she’s noticed—associates are already pretty liberal in interpreting the firm’s business casual dress code and, would you believe it, she even saw one wearing what appeared to be a halter top last quarter—well, it was at this point that a few people actually got up and left.

Let’s put aside for the moment the fact that, Friday or no Friday, the general sight-having population would be done a collective solid if Astrid no longer saw fit to burden them with the vision of all five feet, two inches of her 175 pounds crammed into an apparently limitless collection of undersized, synthetic, dickey-based ensembles fished out of the local Ann Taylor Loft Outlet. Let’s instead focus on the fact that…WHY ARE WE TALKING ABOUT THIS CRAP WHEN PEOPLE ARE GETTING FIRED WITHOUT EXPLANATION AND THE FIRM APPEARS TO BE PLUMMETING HEADFIRST INTO DISSOLUTION?! Does the firm really think we give any kind of rat’s ass about the dress code—and more troublingly, do they?! Is this persistent refusal to address issues like layoffs in favor of issues like errant halter top sightings some brilliant Machiavellian ploy on the firm’s part to keep its associates in line, or is it just…delusional?

Because here’s the thing: If you’re going to insult us by laying off hordes of our colleagues under some limp performance-based pretense and then leave us in the dark about the state of our own employment, fine, but don’t then humiliate us by calling a meeting where you do nothing but vomit your managerial incompetence all over us by ignoring the elephant in the room.  Just…don’t hold any meetings for us.  Ever.  If you’re going to keep us ignorant and paranoid, at least let us retain some dignity in our ignorance.  And at the very least, please just let us get laid off in whatever kind of goddamn pants we want.

In all fairness to the firm, they did finally address the question of layoffs at the meeting—for about nineteen seconds. When the Astrid Beast’s unsolicited commentary wrapped itself up and the managing partner asked for any questions, after about half a minute of stunned, disgusted silence, some intrepid first-year had the balls to raise his hand and ask whether the firm’s repeated assurances in the past two months that it was not considering attorney layoffs were still valid.  The partner shifted his penguin heft at his podium, hesitated, and then, in a moment worthy of the most convoluted LSAT question, delivered this verbatim gem:  “I have to be honest, we cannot say that layoffs are no longer not being considered.”  Got that?  Good.  (And please drop me a line if you do, because I still have no clue what the hell he meant.)

And then, without another word about layoffs or firm finances, the penguin assured us—again with a straight face—that the firm will continue to be “completely transparent” in any affairs that affect associates—which, I can only presume, means that if the firm finally decides to consider that Open-Toed Shoe Tuesdays policy that we’ve all been wondering about, the associates will be the first ones to know.

So, there you have it.  The big meeting may not have made any of us less paranoid, less gripped with fear and uncertainty, but at least the upshot was nice and clear: Stock up on your jeans, kids.  Because, if that giant elephant lying in the corner of the 6th floor conference room was to be trusted, it looks like every day may soon turn out to be Casual Fridays. Donations optional.

An excerpt of this essay is also being published today on everyone’s favorite legal tabloid, Above the Law.  Make sure to check it out here!