Winds of change
Last night right after class, I came home and crept into bed. It was the cap on a very draining week, which is what every week winds up being these days. I lay there for a few minutes, then got back out and dragged myself into the shower so I could go out to Plank’s and have free pizza courtesy of the Student Bar Association and the Public Interest and Government Law group. PI-Gov, as they call it, is affectionately known to me as “PIGLaw.”
Aside from the always-jarring experience of venturing into any part of Straightland (is that a real woman? what’s with all the braided leather belts? I paid to be here?), the night was reasonably pleasurable. We stood around gossiping about people we know, some of whom we’d just been sitting next to in class not an hour before. Did you know so-and-so pretended to be absent when he was called on in class because he didn’t have the guts to admit he hadn’t done the reading? Is it true that a certain military figure has dropped out? Did you make the National Moot Court Team? And lurking under all these, my favorite obsession: so who’s number one in the class?
Alcohol is always such a great social lubricant, isn’t it? I didn’t drink because I wanted to sleep when I got home, but I had a good time teasing the woman who has been named the Blonde Tornado. (Not by me, I hasten to add, and not an unironic choice on the part of the namer, either.) She teased me about my appalling clothes — T-shirt, jeans, and rubber sandals — then made a sweeping gesture that caused her to dump her own beer onto the very same sandals. It was even funnier the second time she did that. She’s a good girl and I do wish her the best. She’s just so easy to talk to (“it’s my own fault, I shit where I eat”).
Why are we all chasing after this law degree? Sometimes I see the students as satellites orbiting the decidedly un-Heavenly body that is CULS. Some of them are in regular, close orbits, passing over the books and the library each week like clockwork. Others, like that big liar from Con Law, are erratic comets that grow brighter and dimmer with no discernible pattern. Yet all of us are going to be launched out in a different direction some day — or crash onto the surface. Why are we doing it? From this vantage point, it’s hard to envision ever getting out or using this stuff. Some days it feels like I’m still not a grown-up. I hate wearing the backpack. Will wearing the suit and, sadly, the occasional braided leather belt, feel any better?