A Very Sad Story
Sometimes you can look at a child and say, “Man, he was meant to be a basketball star.” That’s what people used to say about me too, except instead of basketball star, they said lawyer.
I was born in a matching sweater set and shiny Mary Jane shoes on February 26, 1988. Rumor has it I climbed down a stack of reference books to accept the birth certificate. I have spent more recess hours in a library—more hours in a library in general—than probably most members of Congress. I have, on occasion, very politely argued my way out of paying for school milk (where else do state tax dollars go?). I started making study flash cards long before my teachers recommended it. When I became the only member of my rather large family to require a nice, thick pair of glasses, everyone just said, “Of course.”
It has always been my fantasy to one day wake up, don a matching pantsuit, pick up a leather briefcase, and go to court to defend a client.
I have always been deemed a nerd, a workaholic, a focused and highly ambitious person. I have always dreamed of going to school, and then another school, and then another school. It has always been my fantasy to one day wake up, don a matching pantsuit, pick up a leather briefcase, and go to court to defend a client. I have never wanted to be anything other than a lawyer.
Doctor’s visits are scary for children, period. The clean, white sheets on the examination table, the smell of antiseptic and lost hope—it’s awful. But as a logical little eleven-year-old person, I tried to see the usefulness of these yearly check-ups, saving up questions for my doctor that I had gathered throughout the months I waited to be weighed and measured, looked over and pronounced healthy once again.
This visit was required in order for me to enter middle school. So I abandoned reading on my backyard swing set for a couple of hours to go with my mom to Dr. Mendel’s. What a mustache that man had.