My Seminar Today, or Why I Don't Want to be a Lawyer
I’m sitting in a comfortable chair in a large conference room on the 11th floor of the Union Trust Building in downtown Pittsburgh. I’m attending a seminar titled “Representing a Client Starting a Small Business,” a subject that used to hold great interest for me. I started a small business myself 15 years ago. I’ve helped countless others do the same over the course of my legal career. I already know most of what they’re talking about here: choice of entity, intellectual property, employment and no-compete agreements. I’m only here to get credit for 4 hours of continuing legal education, which I need to keep my attorney license in Pennsylvania. But the truth is, I don’t enjoy practicing law, and not just because of clients that get themselves in trouble when they don’t take my advice. A big negative for me is what I see and hear right here in this room, and what it takes to get here.
First, I have to leave home at 7:30 before two of my kids have even left for school. I have to trade the tremendous pleasure I get from kissing them goodbye as they embark on their day, and the fun of walking my little one down the block, for fighting traffic on 279. When I finally reach 6th Avenue, where I plan to park at the Mellon garage, I'm faced with crossing a Teamsters picket line of striking parking attendants if I am to arrive at the seminar on time. The stress starts creeping in. The consequences of being late are a loss of credited hours, which might necessitate another trip downtown. Trust me, I’m not going to be late. The Teamsters stand aside and I enter the garage. This is good fortune for me, because the garage is only about ½ full—very unusual—I guess my guilt factor is not as highly developed as that of some other people, who clearly honor the strikers and choose to park elsewhere. The only downside for me is the fat lady with the long hair in the Lexus who cuts me off on Level 3. But still, I'm able to back into a good spot on Level 4 down in the subterranean garage and anticipate an easy departure later.
So I arrive on time. There are about 50 people in attendance, plus the four panelists. The moderator is late so the panelists shake up the order of topics until he arrives. The first speaker, a man in his mid-50’s, has a speaking style vaguely reminiscent of Ben Stein in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. He’s talking about the tax implications of stock options. I half-expect him to say “Bueller?.....Bueller?...” and start marking people absent. After he’s done with his topic he spends the rest of the morning playing with his Blackberry.
The lawyers in attendance are not an enthusiastic bunch. The guy in front of me, a 50-ish looking man with a full head of gray hair, is busy on his laptop. At least he’s getting work done.
Around 10:00 the moderator shows up and clearly wants to steal the show from the young woman whose topic is employment agreements. He immediately attaches a mini-microphone to his lapel, the effect of which is to amplify both his voice and the wind he breathes in and out during those rare moments when he’s not talking. While the rest of the panel remains seated at the long table behind the placards bearing their names, the moderator prefers to stand at the podium or wander back and forth across the stage, like a big cat pacing in its cage. He is mighty, not bound to the table by the conventional microphones reserved for lesser legal minds. He appears to be in his mid-40’s and sports a dark suit, white shirt and appropriately conservative yellow tie. His black hair is cropped short and a bluish sheen shimmers across the top of his head when he stands under the overhead recessed lighting. It gives his hair a painted-on look, like he’s some kind of corporate Ken doll. He wears reading glasses that impart a certain experienced legal wisdom to his countenance. I look up his bio in the book. BA from Northwestern, JD/MBA from Emory. OK so he’s smart.
Another woman panelist is speaking now, her name is Penny, this time about financing issues for small businesses. Mr. Ken-doll can barely contain himself. He keeps interrupting her in mid-sentence, with things like: “One of the things I think you need to consider, Penny, is….” or “I had a client come to me who had just started a business, Penny, and…” and he continues in this long-winded fashion, all the time gesturing and pacing across the front of the room, imploring his audience like some kind of lawyerly Phil Donahue. I can’t stand him.
Back to the audience. A portly gentleman is leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his barrel chest, eyes closed. He’s sleeping in the front row. A young lawyer in the row behind me sports a cotton-candy pink shirt—clearly he’s a twenty-something—and he’s reading the sports section of USA Today. I also see the fat lady with the Lexus seated front and center. I deduce that she’s an aggressive personality that I would never be friends with. The guy next to me is sorting through his mail. Some people actually are paying attention, like the middle-aged lady behind me who just asked an incredibly earnest question about how to square the geographic limitations of no-compete agreements with the reality of global trade in the internet age. I’m guessing this is a second career for her. I want to turn around and say “Hey lady, lighten up!”
It’s 11:15. One and a half hours to go. I wonder if it’s too early to eat my sandwich, which I bought at the Brown Bag Deli downstairs on the break. I'm more interested in the life story of the pregnant lady who sold me the sandwich than I am in this seminar. You know, upon reflection, maybe it’s not the clients who annoy me so much. Maybe it’s the lawyers themselves. In this environment, I see little semblance of life’s richness. Everyone is bored, or talking in unintelligible legalese, or pompously expounding on subjects and situations that tend to imply how their brilliance saved the day.
Maybe I’m exaggerating. Besides, if it wasn’t for lawyers, there wouldn’t be any law schools, which is where I met my husband. He’s a smart, funny, multidimensional guy who’s awfully cute and an excellent kisser. He’s also immersed in the law. So I guess I should cut these people a break. After all, anyone looking at me here in this seminar would see a forty-something woman in a black blazer, wearing glasses, furiously at work writing this….they probably think I’m taking notes. Little do they know….
First, I have to leave home at 7:30 before two of my kids have even left for school. I have to trade the tremendous pleasure I get from kissing them goodbye as they embark on their day, and the fun of walking my little one down the block, for fighting traffic on 279. When I finally reach 6th Avenue, where I plan to park at the Mellon garage, I'm faced with crossing a Teamsters picket line of striking parking attendants if I am to arrive at the seminar on time. The stress starts creeping in. The consequences of being late are a loss of credited hours, which might necessitate another trip downtown. Trust me, I’m not going to be late. The Teamsters stand aside and I enter the garage. This is good fortune for me, because the garage is only about ½ full—very unusual—I guess my guilt factor is not as highly developed as that of some other people, who clearly honor the strikers and choose to park elsewhere. The only downside for me is the fat lady with the long hair in the Lexus who cuts me off on Level 3. But still, I'm able to back into a good spot on Level 4 down in the subterranean garage and anticipate an easy departure later.
So I arrive on time. There are about 50 people in attendance, plus the four panelists. The moderator is late so the panelists shake up the order of topics until he arrives. The first speaker, a man in his mid-50’s, has a speaking style vaguely reminiscent of Ben Stein in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. He’s talking about the tax implications of stock options. I half-expect him to say “Bueller?.....Bueller?...” and start marking people absent. After he’s done with his topic he spends the rest of the morning playing with his Blackberry.
The lawyers in attendance are not an enthusiastic bunch. The guy in front of me, a 50-ish looking man with a full head of gray hair, is busy on his laptop. At least he’s getting work done.
Around 10:00 the moderator shows up and clearly wants to steal the show from the young woman whose topic is employment agreements. He immediately attaches a mini-microphone to his lapel, the effect of which is to amplify both his voice and the wind he breathes in and out during those rare moments when he’s not talking. While the rest of the panel remains seated at the long table behind the placards bearing their names, the moderator prefers to stand at the podium or wander back and forth across the stage, like a big cat pacing in its cage. He is mighty, not bound to the table by the conventional microphones reserved for lesser legal minds. He appears to be in his mid-40’s and sports a dark suit, white shirt and appropriately conservative yellow tie. His black hair is cropped short and a bluish sheen shimmers across the top of his head when he stands under the overhead recessed lighting. It gives his hair a painted-on look, like he’s some kind of corporate Ken doll. He wears reading glasses that impart a certain experienced legal wisdom to his countenance. I look up his bio in the book. BA from Northwestern, JD/MBA from Emory. OK so he’s smart.
Another woman panelist is speaking now, her name is Penny, this time about financing issues for small businesses. Mr. Ken-doll can barely contain himself. He keeps interrupting her in mid-sentence, with things like: “One of the things I think you need to consider, Penny, is….” or “I had a client come to me who had just started a business, Penny, and…” and he continues in this long-winded fashion, all the time gesturing and pacing across the front of the room, imploring his audience like some kind of lawyerly Phil Donahue. I can’t stand him.
Back to the audience. A portly gentleman is leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his barrel chest, eyes closed. He’s sleeping in the front row. A young lawyer in the row behind me sports a cotton-candy pink shirt—clearly he’s a twenty-something—and he’s reading the sports section of USA Today. I also see the fat lady with the Lexus seated front and center. I deduce that she’s an aggressive personality that I would never be friends with. The guy next to me is sorting through his mail. Some people actually are paying attention, like the middle-aged lady behind me who just asked an incredibly earnest question about how to square the geographic limitations of no-compete agreements with the reality of global trade in the internet age. I’m guessing this is a second career for her. I want to turn around and say “Hey lady, lighten up!”
It’s 11:15. One and a half hours to go. I wonder if it’s too early to eat my sandwich, which I bought at the Brown Bag Deli downstairs on the break. I'm more interested in the life story of the pregnant lady who sold me the sandwich than I am in this seminar. You know, upon reflection, maybe it’s not the clients who annoy me so much. Maybe it’s the lawyers themselves. In this environment, I see little semblance of life’s richness. Everyone is bored, or talking in unintelligible legalese, or pompously expounding on subjects and situations that tend to imply how their brilliance saved the day.
Maybe I’m exaggerating. Besides, if it wasn’t for lawyers, there wouldn’t be any law schools, which is where I met my husband. He’s a smart, funny, multidimensional guy who’s awfully cute and an excellent kisser. He’s also immersed in the law. So I guess I should cut these people a break. After all, anyone looking at me here in this seminar would see a forty-something woman in a black blazer, wearing glasses, furiously at work writing this….they probably think I’m taking notes. Little do they know….
posted by calabresewoman | 3:21 PM
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