Cost-Benefit Analysis

Well, it’s official—I have survived my first month of law school! Four weeks down, only…  well, let’s not go there. I think it’s pretty safe to say it’s been one of the longest months of my life! I’d meant to maintain a blog about law school once I’d moved, but, then again, I’d also intended to sleep occasionally. Both somewhat unsuccessful feats, in the same family as keeping a social life and taking the time to care about my appearance.

All in all, I can best describe law school life as a “cost-benefit analysis.” However, I no longer measure value in dollars … Now, it’s all about TIME. A few examples…

Hmmm… I could put on make-up today… but that’s 5 minutes that I could use reviewing Torts… oooooh! If I don’t fix my hair, that saves thirty minutes! (Not going to lie, I had to force myself to brush my teeth the other morning, and remind myself that fresh breath WAS actually more important than remembering the second point of the third section of the second restatement.)

Eating, sleeping, relaxing—all parts of life I used to feel were on par with breathing and thinking—have become somewhat optional, and can be replaced at later times with snacking, napping, and… well, I have yet to find a substitute for “relaxing.” Maybe that’s grouped in with “napping.” Cost-benefit analysis says that losing two hours of sleep or skipping a meal doesn’t begin to compare with the humiliation that could follow not completing your reading.

Also, I actually heard this statement before class the other day… “My wife asked me to run home and let the dog out. HOME. That’s five minutes there, five minutes back, plus ten minutes for the dog to take a crap. Can you BELIEVE that? I mean, HELLO, I don’t have twenty minutes! Do it yourself!” The most horrifying part* was that the three of us listening to the complainant were actually aghast at the possibility of losing an unexpected twenty minutes, too.

* Actually, now the most horrifying part is that I just referred to my friend John as “the complainant.” Hmmm… well, at least I didn’t refer to his wife as the Appellant…

So. Life is a cost benefit analysis of time. On this scale, making new friends is trumped by talking on the phone to old ones. Which is trumped by cleaning house. Which is trumped by working out. Which is trumped by eating. Which is trumped, ultimately, as everything is, by READING. Endless,  incomprehensible, occasionally torturous, reading. I read an about… oh, forty pages per class… so, about 120 pages a night. And this isn’t exactly Harry Potter we;re talking about.

So, all in all… I LOVE IT. I know, I know, all I’ve done is gripe, and with good cause! My life is beyond hectic; I’m next to broke; I haven’t been for a jog in weeks; I officially feel less intelligent than I ever have in my entire life. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. The challenge is amazing. Knowing the answer in class after I hear the prof call “Miss Bridges?” is the most satisfying feeling ever—next to not wetting my pants out of fear.  Talking with fellow classmates after lecture about legal theories and cases (dorky as it sounds) makes me feel like there might actually be a purpose to it all.

I am eternally grateful for the people in my life who have gotten me here—because believe me, it wasn’t ANY act of yours truly that did it! My sister’s constant encouragement (even though I know she’d rather have me at home) has kept me sane. My mom’s never-ending confidence in me is the reason I’ve always felt that I could do anything—and hell, even if I screwed up, I was still the “prettiest girl up there!” I never would’ve even thought to apply for law school if it weren’t for the encouragement of my amazing stepdad, Lewis. (He calls his encouragement “meddling,” but he’s mistaken.) My boss at my previous job was the only reason I even applied at SMU… I didn’t think I had a chance, but I did it for him, because he’d done so much for me, and… well, here I am!

I’m not sure how the semester will go… actually, I’m not even sure when I will sleep, or WHAT part of cost-benefit analysis said that ten minutes to write a blog was an acceptable use of time! But I DO know that I’m right where I am meant to be, and honestly, I’m pretty tickled about it.

Dear Tweety Bird Lady--

Dear Tweety Bird Lady,

First, allow me to apologise for calling you "Tweety Bird Lady." You see, a certain amount of time has passed since I realized you worked on the same floor of the building as me, and I feel it rude to finally ask your name. Actually, I feel if I were to ask, you'd be suspicious of why I wanted it in the first place, as we never speak. Actually, I really just don't want to know-- "Tweety Bird Lady" is much more entertaining.

You may be curious as to why I'm writing this. And you may be curious as to why I'm calling you Tweety Bird Lady in the first place-- but I sincerely hope not. You see, the oversized, pajama-like t-shirts you wear have caught my attention. You know, the ones with Tweety Bird, or the Tazmanian Devil, or Bugs Bunny on them, with little word bubbles coming from their mouths, all spraying some sort of stereotypical cartoon character lingo.

I suppose those types of t-shirts are not all that uncommon. I mean, I recognize the style, if that word is even appropriate. I have seen it before-- both on 2-year-olds and on racks at Value Village. However... I'm rather curious as to where one finds these shirts in such an extreme size? You see, it's not only that the shirts adequately cover your large frame, but they do so in such a way that if I were to pants you on the elevator, your employer-- God bless him-- would never know. I do shop at Wal Mart regularly; however, they even seem to have their standards, limiting the calf-length t-shirts to Disney characters.

I'm also curious as to what prompts you to wear these shirts to your place of employment...? Perhaps they provide exceptional warmth during your many Virginia Slim smoke breaks downstairs. Or perhaps your boss is a cartoon afficianado, and you believe your witty wardrobe will earn you a raise. Whatever your reasoning, I will say this: your fashion choices have afforded me many laughs these past few years, and while I don't support grown women dressing like toddlers raised in the 1980's, I do appreciate your uncanny ability to lift my mood.

However... A time has come when I must ask you to stop. You may have noticed I already act strangely when I see you. Just so you understand, when I use a public bathroom, I do not typically walk in a stall while someone is washing their hands, see the toilet water still swirling, indicating recent use, and choose another stall. Also, I do not typically hold my breath on the nine-story flight up our common elevator. Your Virginia Slim-soaked clothing has caused some special actions on my part. However, these little quips in my behavior pale in comparison to what must happen if I again see you wearing the nightgown T you donned last week.

In no way does the precious Tinkerbell ever deserve to be blown up to that size. Ever. And in no way should a woman in her 50's ever write the word "Fiesty" across her torpedo-like chest, right above precious Tinkerbell's likeness.

Please, never wear this shirt again, even if you feel it crucial to express how "fiesty" you truly are. If you have a fireplace, or a grill, or a bucket and some matches, burn this shirt. Do not donate it to Goodwill-- even bums have their standards. Do not throw it away-- it may be found by an innocent, unsuspecting dumpster diver. This shirt needs to be removed, immediately, from human circulation.

If I am to see this shirt again, please excuse my inability to stand up properly, and please excuse the fact that I neglected to cover my protien shake with a lid. This monstrosity of cheap cotton needs to go, and if it must come to it, I will sacrifice my morning breakfast to make sure that happens.

Yours truly,
Sarah