Step It Up

This one’s for the guys.

I’ve noticed a disturbing social catastrophe among male associates unraveling at law firms from coast to coast, and it needs to end. The veil of uncomfortable silence needs to be lifted. So boys, on behalf of lady lawyers everywhere—nay, ladies, period—please know: It’s bad enough having to spend eighteen hours a day with your mangy ass, but if we have to look at your tattered, chunky, third-rate shoes one more time, we are actually going to vomit. Time to step up the footwear, guys. [Read more]

The Perfect Mentor

You have to give the Firm credit for trying.  We were just told that effective this week, all junior associates will be assigned formal, volunteer mentors to “cultivate intellectual curiosity and professional development in an informal, social context.” The general impression among the junior ranks is that the actual idea is to cultivate some asskissery for the senior associates looking to impress the partners with their commitment to Firm citizenship.  The $100-a-month per-pair budget “to be used to for events pertinent to the mentor-mentee dynamic” may also have had some motivational pull.  Truth is, I was ambivalent about the whole thing.  Until I found out who my mentor was. [Read more]

Mental Breakdown 101

You’re not really a rock star until a member of your band o.d.’s face down in a hotel bathtub somewhere between L.A. and Detroit.  Does the same logic hold, then, that you’re not really a Big Firm Associate until you witness a fellow associate having a full-out foaming-at-the mouth mental breakdown at 3 a.m. just outside your office?  I think, for better or worse, that it does.

My initiation began as most do: waiting outside my office in the middle of the night with another junior associate for a new set of redlines to print out.  The associate, Pete, and I stood by the printer when we heard familiar footsteps coming at us.  Had to be Dave, our senior associate supervisor on the deal.  A recent lateral and brand-new dad, Dave had been pulling 400-hour months, grown a Unabomber beard, and long stopped eating anything that wasn’t Red Bull or jerky-based.  I had the under on when he’d get a divorce; Pete had the over (the official line was two years).  We stood and braced ourselves for whatever wild-goose-chase bullshit research project Dave was inevitably coming to pull on us.  What we didn’t expect, however, was what came next. [Read more]

Les Miserables

Last month, I billed—billed—308 hours.  A stat made only more disturbing by the fact that it was my lightest month all quarter.  I talked to an online psychiatrist about going on anti-depressants, I started eating carbs again, and I booked an appointment with my gyno to figure out at what point I should look into freezing my eggs.  But the good news is: I got a free milkshake, courtesy of the Firm’s Happiness Committee. [Read more]

Goodbye Prada

In the fifty or so crappy jobs I had prior to law school, I always cared about how I looked. Sure, I was only working as, say, a temp receptionist at a basement theater company, but I figured, eh, a little mascara and maybe a stiletto or two can’t hurt—because you never know who you’re gonna meet, right?  And when I accepted an offer to work at one of the swankiest Big Firms in New York, I figured the possibilities of who I might meet would skyrocket.  I’d be bumping into sexy corporate titans and Wall Street bad boys left and right—and my old glamour-jones would finally (finally!) have a worthy outlet.  Each day would be a glitzy montage of Louboutin bliss and sleek Prada power suits worthy of Darren Star’s next primetime hit. Sure, I didn’t really know what kind of work I’d actually be doing, or what a lawyer really even does, but I knew I’d look damn good doing it.  So please help me figure out how things have gone so horribly wrong. [Read more]

« Previous Page