I knew it would come to this from the moment my cramped feet hit the floor precariously bearing the weight of my tortured legs at 1:30 this morning.
If I followed my own rules, avoiding gluten and sugar, nights like last night would be scarce. Mornings like this morning would be more rare. As I stood in the courtroom listening to the judge talk about the folly of going to trial with one party 4 centimeters dilated, and another party awaiting the results of his drug test, I thought, Fine. Continue the case. Just let me go home.
I would have done an excellent job, regardless of the fatigue. I had my exhibits, and my case law, and the right side of the balancing act by which a ten-year-old’s life has long been governed.
The parties stood tersely in a group at the front of the courtroom. The mother arched her back and eased into a chair. One of the grandparents, my clients, leaned over her to pour a glass of water. She clutched the cup, sweat breaking across her brow. Behind me, I felt the father’s tension ease. A continuance bought him time to bring himself in compliance with a number of deficiencies, exactly why I had to vocalize opposition, though I knew it to be futile. The judge understood. He’d been in my shoes long enough to know about protecting the record.
Back at the office, I did what I needed to do, including pausing briefly to explain to my secretary why I felt so poorly. She listened intently, asked a few questions, told me that my positive outlook would help me live longer. I smiled. I’m not completely sure of the correctness of my explanation of demyelination but I agreed with her. Showing up is 85% of life, and attitude might be the other 15%.
I drafted a few pleadings, filed a motion, transmitted an order, and then gathered my belongings. I knew that I could log into a webinar for which I had paid and to which I’d been eagerly looking forward. But I can view it online any time in the next thirty days. A book and a hot cup of chai awaited me. An order of pakora beckoned. I headed for the neighborhood and my spot by the window at Chai Shai. Within moments of my arrival, my spirit began to wrench itself from the grip of exhaustion. Restoration, rejuvenation, and redemption lay just a few sips of the lovely hot liquid away.
It’s the nineteenth day of the thirty-seventh month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.