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The Tale of Princess Pantsuit

Once upon a time, a raven-haired princess sat day after day in a sun-filled office behind a non-descript mahogany wood desk. Surrounded by stacks and stacks of Bates-labeled papers and tape flagged editions of Antitrust Law Developments, she spent her afternoon dreaming of 10-minute commutes and seeing her young child more than 1.76 hours per day. On her hour-long ride on the iron and steel dragon home, she often closed her eyes, images of herself standing before the stove, expertly cooking chicken and dumplings for her bright-eyed husband and child for dinner. Tears often dripped silently down her cheeks as she slipped into her sleeping child’s room when she returned home from work having not seen him awake that day.

As she toiled away silently, her fingers striking her work PC as ”Id.” and “§” crossed the screen in front of her, she hungered for direct client contact. She hoped that one day, clients would call her directly and solicit her opinion-not that of her boss. For her boss was an evil, evil wizard who tricked her with promises of good reviews, enough money for Montessori preschool tuition, and "substantial responsibility" for unique and novel projects. Yet once under his trickery and evil influence, our caramel-skinned. bootcut pant-clad princess found herself toiling away silently during client conference calls, not saying much of anything. While she had spent the previous two hours educating the evil man on the requirements for a Robinson-Patman claim, once the client billing number and phone number was entered onto the telephone keypad, she found herself abruptly quieted by the evil wizard’s monopolization of the call.

She dutifully recorded her hours spent merely listening to the man’s monologue, and returned to her office and softly closed the door.

One day, as the summer sun turned cold and the chill of autumn tickled her cheeks, our youngish-looking Princess Pantsuit received news of a new way of life, one free from the tolling of time in tenths of hours and client billing numbers. "Yes," she said to herself as she scoured through job listings on ACCA, "an in-house job will make me the first stop for client counseling. If I am to grow and blossom as a learned craftswoman, I must make this journey to a new land."

And so she dutifully edited her multiple resume versions, each specifically designed to highlight the skills and background necessary for each job posting, dreaming of the day that when the client calls to her number--her very own number--poured in, hour by the hour, with questions on cutting-edge business strategies and requests for opinion.

She journeyed across the land, with her resume and writing sample clutched in her tiny hands, to meet with lords and ladies alike--each who held sway over the decision to hire new corporate counsel. She artfully framed her answers to tough questions and produced upon request lists of references, each of whom had been put on notice to receive calls from recruiters with questions on likability, perserverance, and "good fit." She forged ahead into the deep chasm of rejection many a time, kept aloft by the promise of being home by six-thirty. Although the calls of "we will keep you in mind, should the right opportunity arise" kept pouring in, she stayed strong in her quest.

One afternoon as the sun slid gently behind the hills, the black-haired, bespectacled Princess Pantsuit sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, across the table from a soft spoken manor lord and answered his many questions humbly and respectfully. “Yes,” she said “I would very much like to work for you.” And the manor lord looked favorably upon her.

Early the next afternoon, as the sun imprinted stripes on her desk’s surface, the telephone heralded the sound of change. “Come join us,” the seemingly faraway voice said, “and leave the Land of the Law Firm behind. Their lords will become your servants, and you will dine every day at the sumptuous table of Constant Client Contact.”

And so she left that desolate land behind, bowing gracefully to the disbelieving citizens and began her journey westward.

One bright and stark winter morning, she found herself at the foot of a white castle, her hands clutching her simple black tote behind her back. She proffered her driver’s license to the guard stationed staidly at the front, and signed many white sheets with stark black print. Finally, she was ushered in-not with much fanfare, but with continental breakfast.

As her days continued to roll themselves along, the black, standard issue phone began to ring.

And it rang.

And rang.

And rang some more.

It rang throughout the year.

It rang every hour during the day. And sometimes at night.

The manor lords handed the keys to the cast to different manor lords.

And then phone rang more increasingly, its persistent tone jolting her from spells imposed by risk assessment analysis.

And so, Princess Pantsuit was happy to finally to receive requests from beseeching court jesters, lords and ladies, who had suddenly multiplied themselves a hundredfold.

But sometimes she was bewildered and confused, for the lords and ladies did not want her to shut her door and dance complex dances through case law and research. They wanted answers right away. And soon, Princess Pantsuit found herself making small mistakes that she never made while dwelling in the Land of The Law Firm, mistakes that buzzed around her ears like hungry mosquitos.

After kissing her ever-growing child and tucking him in his bed, she flung herself on her own. “Woe is me!” she cried as she collapsed in the arms of her husband. “For while these mistakes are corrected, their ghosts haunt me and tease me. Make them stop!” She gathered herself together, and realized that the ghosts of mistakes were the substitutes for lessons learned through the cases, and that without them, she would never really become a true sage and learned craftswoman.

And so our dear Princess Pantsuit sits, five days out of the week, with her ghosts of mistakes-many of whom now are her constant companions and teachers. She never stops learning from them the lessons of humility and grace. As she rides her red chariot home to her waiting husband and child, she thinks of those specters often, and wonders what things they will bring her tomorrow.

Posted by equilibrium-girl at February 11, 2006 03:21 PM