You. You you you. You non-legal person, you. You economist, you policy nerd, you excel sheet-with-no-glamour in your life person, you. You who went out loudly criticizing the leisure of our lives. And you who achieved your goal. Many congratulations.
Because of you, our vacations have now become partial. Our dreams, hopes and aspirations have become farcical. You made this happen. You will not be forgiven.
I know who you are. I know what you do. I will find you and I will NOT represent you. One day, your sister will sue you or your spouse will walk all over you. You will have a case – a good one, the kind that needs someone exactly like me – and I will NOT do it - pro bono. I will demand a fee. What is legally due to me. Every rupee of it. You see!
You thought you were safe. You are not safe.
You think you are doing your bit for the justice delivery system by stealing our break. Well, not really. You are doing what you always do – fixing the symptom because the problem is too damn hard to fix.
You created enough noise, though. Good enough to have us all on our toes. And I despise you.
Because of you, I can no longer take that beach vacation, for which I anyways have neither the means nor the strength, but still have to -- because how else will I show my face outside the corridors and near the canteen?
You think that’s a small thing? It is not a small thing. The canteen is where big vacation plans are made and restaurant reccos and travel itineraries are shared. That same canteen, the one best near that washroom, which annoys some but is convenient to others – but that’s a different matter. Not for today.
Where were we? Yes - Vacations - or the loss thereof.
Because of you I will now not have to worry about making enough money in June - to pay the bills. Because of you, I will not have to find contracts to vet during the summer. I will not have to swallow my litigator pride and redline documents. I will not have to pretend I enjoy it. I will not have to nod along when a transactional colleague explains what a condition precedent is. To me. A litigator. Who has argued before division benches. The indignity of it.
Because of you, I will not have to say to a client – “Oh, I do everything.” You know how that sounds, right? The ugly desperation of the lawyer who does everything. The everything-lawyer. The one who handles your property dispute and your employment matter and your consumer complaint and, yes, fine, will look at your shareholders’ agreement even though the last time they opened one was during internship. The everything-lawyer who has an answer for every practice area and expertise in none. You made sure I don’t live that dream for a month. I continue to litigate. Saturdays and beyond.
Because of you, so many sundowner vacation parties did not happen. No vacation means no party. And now we don’t even get to fret about not being invited to all of them. That specific feeling – the “Oh they didn’t call me” – you took that away. The not-being-invited was ours. It was our anxiety to carry. How dare you remove it?
You don’t know what it’s like to have a surprise matter listed in the middle of June -- it hits different, like a sucker punch.
You don’t know what it’s like to have a surprise matter listed in the middle of June -- it hits different, like a sucker punch. To wake from the slumber. To wear a band on top of a shirt with floral print. To hide all of it behind a make-do blazer and appear. Appear and seek adjournment on account of “personal difficulty” (wink wink) – have it allowed. You don’t know what it’s like.
But you don’t know the half of it. You counted the holidays. You did not count the 11 pm drafts or the Sunday conferences. You did not count the spouse who has stopped asking when you’re free because the answer is always the same.
You don’t just want us to work. You want us on the treadmill. Item after item. No afternoon to just sit with a draft and think. You want the overworked lawyer aesthetic. So that the courtroom reels keep rolling on your phone. Content. You want us as content.
You are just jealous. Of our grit. Our institutional memory. Our blazers. Our bands. You want to tire us and then worship us.
You just don’t want to give us a break.
Because you don’t get one.
Neither do we now, apparently.
Thanks to you.