Weighty Matters

            I haven’t weighed myself in five months.  Mostly it’s because our bathroom scales are hidden away, squished up with other belongings during our house remodel.  But still, I’m sure I could have found a way to weigh, so to speak, if I had wanted to. I’m relatively interested in other indicia about myself:  blood pressure, lab test results, visual acuity, and the state of my teeth and gums.  But weight?  No so much. 

             Body weight was never an issue when I was a child.  I was an active tree-climbing, bike-riding, lake-swimming kid.  By age 10 or 11, my parents bought me my first horse, and I was a devoted barn rat for most of my teenage years.

             And then came college.  Unlimited cafeteria food, late night pizza and beer parties, and 4:00 a.m. donut runs after all-night study sessions.  The Freshman 15 hit me fast and hard.  But I thought the weight gain – my formidable new adversary – was something to conquer and eliminate; I had no idea that I was waging a war that would last for decades.

             My initial naïve approach to weight loss was calorie counting.  I reviewed food labels, measured portions, planned menus, and tallied calories.  I bought low-calorie salad dressing, drank diet sodas, and limited myself to skim milk in coffee.  I watched my carbs and read, with enthusiasm, highly regarded diet books; I tried everything they had to offer.  The diets worked – for a while.  But eventually the pounds would creep back with apparent eagerness.  My self-esteem plummeted exponentially with every increase on the scales.

             As the years went by, my life became more complex:  law school, marriage, career, family, and volunteerism.  I felt happy, energetic, and productive.  But my obsession with my weight was always hovering in the background, like an interminable drone in the distance.

             Exercise became my secret weapon.  I added aerobics, jogging, Pilates, and walking to an already-ambitious life load.  Consistency was always a challenge, but I struck an uneasy alliance between what my body looked like versus how I thought it should look. 

             In 2010, I stopped all the workout pledges, promises, and aspirations and decided to exercise for at least 30 minutes every single day.  That commitment extinguished the endless planning and the exhausting effort of discipline, and, most importantly, it removed the relentless guilt-tripping when I failed to work out.

             Magically, my weight gently and gracefully stabilized, much like a little boat settling into calming waters after the wind dies down.  It’s not just the extra calories that I burn by regular exercise.  Exercise combats stress and reduces anxiety.  I don’t turn to food to comfort myself when life pushes me off-kilter like I did in the past. 

             The remodel is over, and I’ll find those bathroom scales and dust them off.  I’ll get on the scales and weigh myself.  Or maybe not.  I’ve entered a season of peaceful accord with my weight, and it’s a truce that I think will last a lifetime.

Solitary Solace

            It’s Mother’s Day morning, and I’m heading out for a bike ride -- by myself.  I’ve left the predictable and affectionate warmth of my home and husband for something less certain.  I’m not exactly sure of my route or how long I will bike, and it’s not at all clear the level of effort it will require. 

             Solitary endeavors are usually like that.  Without the input and need to accommodate a companion, I am free to traverse my physical and emotional world without negotiation.  It’s liberating, enlightening, and freeing.

             I’m sure the Myers Briggs personality test folks could peg me immediately.  I’m someone who thrives on time alone.  I love my running and biking buddies, and active group pursuits are my favorite way to socialize.  But exercising outdoors by myself is when I feel most renewed.  My mind is free from distraction while I experience the comforting backdrop of measured breathing, physical effort, and outdoor sensory input. 

             I’ve solved more personal and legal work problems than I can count while exercising.  I don’t even have to consciously focus on an issue; the possible solutions just gently appear and probe, are tested and analyzed, and then mysteriously retreat until suddenly I’m aware of how to solve the problem.  At other times, my mind just bumps along from one subject to the next like a tumbleweed in a gentle breeze.  I am grateful during either scenario to have unfettered time when I don’t need to channel, contain, or direct my thoughts.

             Time alone is therapeutic, as well.  I am reminded that I am capable, resourceful, creative, and strong.  I’m not at the bidding of clients, and I’m released from any social niceties that casual, but essential, relationships mandate.  The emotional needs of loved ones (whether real or imagined) are non-existent.  Instead, exercise pushes me head-first into self-discovery to confront and slay my personal dragons.   There’s nowhere to hide while exercising alone. 

             Today’s bike ride lasts almost two hours, and afterwards I feel uplifted and happily fatigued.  I throw my bike into the car, and I drive to my son and daughter-in-law’s house for a family barbecue.  Delicious food, lovable and energetic dogs, and the joyful engagement with those I love the most is the perfect accompaniment to a quiet, reflective, and solitary morning.

Modeling My Mother

             It was late Spring, 1975.  My brother and his cohorts were the culprits in a high school Senior prank that involved stacking tires on the school’s flagpole using a complicated pulley system.  When my brother came home the next day, my mother simply said, “The police came to the house last night, and they asked me if I knew where you were.  I said no.”  That was it.  No questions, no accusations, no punishment, and no damage to the parent-child relationship.  And I suspect, though I am not certain, that my 17-year-old brother graduated without a police record.

             Understatement was just one of my mother’s defining characteristics.  There were others, some of which I didn’t appreciate at the time and some I’m just now recognizing.

             My mother was not a whiner.  Despite suffering almost unbearable losses and personal tragedies, I never once heard her complain.  The words, “it’s not fair,” “why me,” and “it’s too hard” were absent from her vocabulary.  I don’t think she consciously avoided using those expressions; I just think complaining never entered her mind.

             “Better busy than bored” was my mother’s mantra.  She carried a bag in her car so that she could park and pick up trash on the side of the road.  She made dozens of hand-made quilts that she donated to charity.  She had an unbridled enthusiasm for every grandchild event from band concerts, team sports, fundraisers, and school presentations.  She cleaned refrigerators (and, to our horror, gutters) without being asked, refinished furniture, swept sidewalks, and made endless runs to the Dollar Store when her grandkids were young.  Winding down meant sewing or reading; I never once saw her watch a commercial television show.

             When we were kids, my mother shooed us out the door with the admonishment that we needed fresh air, regardless of the weather.  We played tag, kickball, and badminton.  We climbed trees and rode bikes.  Vacations as a young family centered around hiking and exploring.  My parents bought me my first horse before I was ten years old, which made me a barn rat for the next decade. 

             My mother incorporated exercise into every aspect of her life even as she aged:  sanding decks, walking dogs, pulling weeds, climbing stairs with vacuum cleaners, and hustling through household chores.  She wasn’t one to put on fancy exercise clothes and head to an aerobics class.    She just never sat still.  Late into her 80’s, I remember my mother trekking along with her walker in the small town where she lived, her face filled with determination and joy. 

             My mother never told me what to do, she simply modeled behaviors that spoke volumes.  I don’t remember her ever telling me that staying busy and physically active would keep me sane and carry me through difficult times.  I just know from her example that it is true.

             I miss you, Mom.  You were an extraordinary, energetic and devoted mother.  I’m sorry I was such a brat at times, but you were my hero and role model.  And thank you for not ratting out my little brother to the police, not that I wouldn’t have enjoyed it in a big sisterly kind of way.

Build It, and It Will Come

            In my sophomore year of college, I was driving to campus to take an exam, and I rear-ended the driver in front of me who was moving slowly through a traffic light.  I was shaken and devastated.  The damage to the other car was not that great in my astute 19-year-old estimation, but the damage to my mother’s car was significant.  I was ashamed and scared, and I felt very, very alone.

             The driver of the car and another man showed up at my part-time job a few days later with proof of repair costs.  I remember feeling intimated by the two of them.  The repair costs were in the $200-$300 range, and I raided, and decimated, my meager savings to pay the bill. 

             My mother’s car was another story.  The autobody shop estimated the repairs at about $1000, far beyond anything I could afford to pay.  I was faced with a dilemma:  tell my mother about the accident and let her shoulder the financial and logistical burden of repairs, or, devise a plan to fix the car myself.  My mother lived and worked in Louisville, Kentucky, about two hours away.  I only saw her a couple of times a month, so I had a short window of opportunity.

             I procured a second part-time job at a blood donation center, and every night after college classes and my day job at a research laboratory, I pricked fingers and tested blood hemoglobin levels.  At 9:00 p.m., I would drive home and collapse on the couch, often sleeping in my clothes until morning.  I found a bank that was willing to loan me $1000, and I paid for the car repairs.  I made the loan payments religiously for a year, and I remember walking triumphantly into the bank with my final payment.

             I’ve read debates about whether character is built through adversity or whether character is revealed by life’s hardships.  I’m in the former camp.  I don’t believe that moral fabric is embedded in a person’s DNA; it is built, brick by brick, by being tested, making hard decisions, and painstakingly carrying them out.  I made a mistake, and I didn’t feel like anyone else should suffer for it.  The accident created an opportunity for me to accept responsibility, formulate a plan to right it, and complete the plan.  I learned that commitment is its own reward.

             I look back with pride at this young girl, tested by life and responding with maturity in a process that was exacting and, ultimately, unnecessary.  (I found out later, of course, that insurance would have paid for the repairs!)  But a responsibility template is a tool that will get used repeatedly.  I’m gratified now that I had the chance to painstakingly add to the foundation of adult integrity.  

             You don’t need to inherit character; just construct it!  Brick by brick; build character, and it will come.

Moving Moments

            It’s Saturday morning at 6:15 a.m.  My husband and I leave our house to drive to a U-Haul pickup location in Seattle.  It’s the last weekend of April, and we’re betting that rental truck businesses will be busy since people tend to move at the end of the month.  We are not professional movers, but then again, we know something about this stuff. 

             Over the years, we’ve helped our children move many times.  Today we’re helping our middle son move out of his apartment and into his girlfriend’s.  This move is a cinch.  Just pick up a bed, a dresser, an extra television, and a couple of end tables that won’t fit into his new digs.  Some of the stuff will go to our house, and I will donate others.  The move is a well-executed drill, and we’re in and out of the south Lake Union area of Seattle before most of its young adult inhabitants are awake.

             A friend of mine, hearing my plans to help with the move, praised me for being such a great mom.  She doesn’t understand.  There’s practically nothing I love more than even peripheral involvement in something as consequential as relocating.  The opportunities to help our young, talented, and independent children get fewer and far between; it’s like gradually slowing down on a highway and watching the mileposts become less and less frequent. 

             The memories of other moves are lodged in my mind.  We accompanied our son and daughter-in-law in a cross-country road trip with two cars and four dogs.  I helped our middle son move out of college housing into an off-campus studio apartment that was so small he affectionally referred to it as his kennel.  I assisted our youngest son in his Los Angeles to Seattle move, a two-day adventure in which we stopped only to sleep, fill gas tanks, and buy mini-mart pepperoni sticks and bottled water.  The going-away-to-college moves were some of the most poignant:  an airplane trip with a couple of large suitcases, putting sheets on a dormitory bunkbed, attending orientation, and then parting, and watching the barely discernable softening in our son’s eyes.

             Every family-member move lodges itself in my memory at the confluence of sweetness and wistfulness.  I happily witness excited energy and renewal; however, I am concretely reminded that my children’s lives, like mine, are inextricably marching forward.

             Like every major life event, even the happy ones, I weather it with the comforting backdrop of exercise.  The physical act of moving is, by itself, enough to check the exercise box for the day:  climbing in and out of rental trucks, lifting heavy wooden furniture, and navigating bumpy terrane while carrying awkwardly shaped objects.  It’s a great counterpart to overly repetitious exercise routines.

  Saturday is a touching and bittersweet day for me; moving out and moving forward is, quite simply, moving.

What You Don't Say Can Speak Louder than What You Do

            It’s a recent Thursday morning.  I am waiting for a phone call from Super Lawyers magazine, which is running a national story dedicated to stress in the legal profession.  The writer is interviewing lawyers about their experience with stress, how it affects them, and how they combat it.  My story is how daily exercise counters the burdens and pressures of a litigation practice.

             I assembled key points to discuss in advance of the interview, such as how research links stress with anxiety and depression, as well as serious physical health impacts.  I jotted down the major burdens of my practice such as aggressive opposing counsel, keeping up with the latest case law, small business financial matters, and how technology promotes, and demands, more frequent communications. 

             The interviewer was experienced, perceptive, and attentive.  I revealed my past emotional upheavals and traumas.  I related exercise’s neurological benefits, including neurotransmitter (e.g., serotonin and dopamine) regulation.  I discussed how litigation is uncollaborative.  I mentioned constant business management issues such as overhead cost control, hourly rates in a competitive legal market, employee benefits and retention, and cash flow and compensation.  I disclosed my personal battle allocating time among competing demands. 

             When the interview was over, I reflected on the interaction, and I felt generally pleased with how it went.   Then I realized what I had forgotten to say.

             The day before the interview, our firm had a filing deadline in an important case.  We were acting as co-counsel, and our job was to draft a key client affidavit in support of a motion for contempt and for judgment.  The stakes were high, and the client’s challenging disposition didn’t help matters.  In a 24-hour period, I received 31 emails from the client with demanding and sometimes conflicting assertions.  Early in the email barrage, I politely reminded her that all communications must be respectful.  In response she berated me, accused me of not listening to her, and informed me that I was causing her blood pressure to spike.

             For ethical reasons, I was unable to withdraw immediately.  I submitted to her bullying and completed the legal work.  When it was done, I filed a motion to withdraw as her legal counsel giving notice as mandated by court rules.  It was an exhausting work day.

             The next day was the interview.  I didn’t relate the punishing episode from the day before.  I didn’t think to use it as an example of how stressful my work can be.  The truth is that difficult client relationships, though rare, are an almost intolerable part of practicing law.  Instead, I just neatly folded up the episode into my just-another-tough-workday mental briefcase, and I forgot about it. 

             For the moment, anyhow.

Timesheet Turmoil

            It’s a weekday morning, and I’m in the office.  Exercise and a shower are behind me.  Cereal and hot coffee are in front of me.  I feel happy and at peace with the world.  The day’s frustrations and aggravations haven’t started yet, and the morning beckons me with a friendly, anticipatory wave.

             Except for one thing:  yesterday’s timesheet.  It’s only half-filled out with some case names and some random office administrative tasks jotted down.  It will take me at least thirty minutes to complete it, and even then, I’ll be left wondering what happened to the additional three hours that I worked but which are not reflected on my timesheet.

             For those of you whose workday accomplishments are not tied to the number of hours billed, good for you!  For legal professionals, we mostly bill by the hour, even if a portion of our practice is contingent fee or flat fee.  Maximizing revenues is based on productivity, efficiency, the use of paraprofessionals, template forms for routine matters, and the use of technology but also on accurately capturing the day’s activities so that clients can be billed.

             We have fancy billing software that helps to some extent, but that works best for large cases and timekeepers that have the luxury of blocks of uninterrupted time.  You just pull up the case name, start the software timer, describe the activity, and away you go.  For me, that doesn’t work.  As manager of my firm, I get interrupted dozens of times a day.  I believe it is more efficient to field questions as they arise than to block off chunks of time and delay decisions and answers to questions.  So editing a motion for summary judgment is riddled with random interruptions:  can you run a conflicts check on this new case, what hourly rates are appropriate, this client has a question about a large bill, opposing counsel needs to discuss a settlement, another client is going rogue, how to we rein her back in, an urgent email, and on and on.

             I jot down cases, conferences, phone calls, emails, and administrative and management tasks frantically, hoping that I can recreate my day into tidy six-minute increments by using those notations, my email inbox, and my calendar.  I aspire to finish each timesheet by the end of the day, or at least by first-thing the next morning.  But mostly, I don’t.  In fact, sometimes I have five or six incomplete timesheets staring at my guilty face, and it can take two hours to finish them.  That process always makes me feel ashamed and contrite.  I vow to never let that happen again – until it does. 

             This week’s epiphany was that completing and turning in a timesheet every single day was just a habit I needed to establish.  SO easy, right?  It’s just a matter of deciding to do it, setting up a trigger to make sure it gets done, recording my daily accomplishment to encourage the routine, and, of course, rewarding myself for doing it.  Like any other habit, it will take a while before it becomes automatic, but I’ll get there.

             Wish me luck!  I’m shooting for a 50-day streak.  Got to run; yesterday’s timesheet calls!

I Have a Not So Little Shameful Secret. Literally.

            It’s 10:30 on Saturday morning.  I’m at my office, lying on the hard floor, trying to sleep.  I didn’t sleep well last night, and I’ve been up since 4:00 a.m.  I start to doze for just a moment before tears begin pricking the inside of my eyelids, which then triumphantly morph into miniature rivulets down my cheeks.

             Sleeping on the floor of my office is just one of my little secrets, and it’s not something I’m super proud of.  I mean, who does that?  Don’t real adults with good self-esteem just sleep in late and forego what they had planned for the day?  We applaud and revere those wholly integrated, mindful people who just say no and put their own needs first, or, conversely, those hearty folks that just grab a large drip coffee and tough it out.

             But catching winks on my office floor is hardly the worst of it.  The real secret is living with shame.  Not the oh-geez-I-should-be-twenty-pounds-thinner shame or this-year-I-should-file-my-taxes-on-time type of shame.  It’s the persistent and insidious belief that I’m not good enough:  not a thoughtful enough wife, a patient enough mother, or a smart enough lawyer.  Heck, I’m even convinced that our rescue dog would be better trained (after three months) if I had more talent for dog training. 

             I’ve chastised myself, during various life phases, for not having a fancy house, organized closets, retire-without-a-care 401(k) balances, symmetrical facial features, or an emotionally-perfect mother-daughter relationship.  And don’t even get me started about my perceived business management shortcomings. 

             The problem with shame is that you can’t enjoy success, shrouded as it is in the knowledge that someone else has achieved more with less effort, time, or expense.  Accepting accolades is impossible because I’m convinced that if people really knew me, they’d pull back that congratulatory handshake and look awkwardly the other way.

             But there’s one aspect of my life that carries absolutely no shame, and it might be the only one:  exercise.  I’m no imposter when it comes to getting outdoors and getting it done.  I harbor no judgment about my level of fitness, and I’m proud, though not smug, about my commitment to exercise.  Don’t get me wrong; I’m still a perfectionist, and I’m irritated as all get out that my half marathon time this year was five minutes slower than last year.  But perfection is not my goal.

             I’m simply grateful for being able to move through the world the way I want to, and I’m thankful that working out every day requires little discernable effort.  Without a daily exercise habit, working out would be just one more thing to feel guilty and ashamed about.  Who needs that?  I still have plenty of other material:  I never sent out Christmas thank you cards, I haven’t emailed elected officials to tell them what they are doing wrong, and last I checked, there’s too much dog hair in the back of my car.

             But at least when I’m done with a run, I’ll be perfectly content.  At least for a while!

Take Me Out to the Ball Game! Even If I Should Be Somewhere Else...

            It’s Opening Day for the Seattle Mariners.  My husband and I have spectacular seats for the game, and we’re sitting outdoors in great weather.  The Mariners are improbably several runs ahead of the World Champion Boston Red Socks.  It’s perfect.

             And yet, I’m conflicted.  As luck would have it, I landed two seats for Opening Day from my Mariners ticket pool on the same night I had scheduled and paid to attend a professional legal event honoring groundbreaking women in the law.  It was an opportunity that I looked forward to and longed to be a part of. 

             But it was also something I should have gone to, an occasion to be seen, to connect and engage with lawyers that might give our law firm work.  Networking in the legal world is nuanced:  shaking hands, congratulating lawyers on outcomes of appeals, chuckling about a judge’s comments during hearings, and, occasionally, commiserating about case outcomes.  It’s all part of the social marketing dance.

             I’ve made many hard decisions in the thirty years I’ve been a lawyer.  Private practice is a particularly demanding master, filled with challenging cases, formidable adversaries, and exacting clients.  And managing a law firm has its own insistent and unrelenting tasks.

             The missed family opportunities were the hardest:  middle-of-the-day elementary school art shows, rocket launches, and field trips. On one excruciating occasion, a court appearance caused me to miss my son’s first day of school, and I couldn’t watch him board the bus nor meet his teacher. The agonizing and complex decision making that working parents make seem disproportionately borne by women, and I’m glad those years are over.

             But for the last nine years, I haven’t sacrificed exercise for either work or family. Working out doesn’t fall into either the “should” or “want to” categories.  It’s like the Switzerland of daily tasks; my emotion about it is neither abundant enthusiasm nor ascertainable dread.  I just know I’m going to do it.  That’s the beauty of an exercise habit:  it doesn’t require effort, sacrifice, guilt, second-guessing, or contrition.  It’s just there.

             Tonight, I regret missing the comments and conversation from the Honorable Carolyn Dimmick, Mayor Jenny Durkan, and the Honorable M. Margaret McKeown, among other female groundbreakers.  But I’m betting that part of their relatable experience includes making difficult decisions about competing demands.  These impressive women no doubt understand and endorse the complicated lives that working women face.  They probably all support my decision to spend time with my husband doing nothing more productive than cheering on the home team.

             So, buy me some peanuts and Crackerjacks.  Go Mariners!

Fully-Clothed Streaking

            On Tuesday this week, I left work feeling achy.  Not sick; just like I’d done something physically exhausting the day before.  By bedtime, I was completely drained of energy.  By morning, it was all I could do to drag myself out for a half-hour walk before going to work.  I even stopped part-way to the office and parked my car for a quick nap.  It helped -- a little.

             I related the sleeping-in-the-car story to amused co-workers, one of whom asked why I didn’t stay home.  That made so much sense; it just never occurred to me!  My patient and all-knowing paralegal, who has worked with me for twenty years, piped up, “Laurin doesn’t call in sick.”  And in a moment of clarity, I realized she was right. 

             Don’t get me wrong; over the years I’ve slept late, left early, and had more under-the-weather lunchtime parking lot naps than I can remember.  But as you can tell, going to the office every day is just what I do.  Like you, there are things I have done virtually every single day for years.  And to be honest, I kind of dig my streaks.

             March was a big streak month for me.  I hit 365 days in a row of practicing Portuguese on my Duolingo app.  (I can now pronounce, “Eu nao falo Portugues” almost perfectly!)  I celebrated my 35th wedding anniversary.  (SO easy to stay married; way easier than finding the perfect partner and getting married.)  My nine-year anniversary of exercising every day occurred on March 5th. 

             Some streaks are deliberate, and some just happen.  For me, routines might begin randomly until I am lured by their sequential nature.  Before I know it, I am enticed by a sense of challenge and accomplishment.  Exercising every day was a deliberate and daunting choice that became easy-peasy after a couple of months.  I was very sporadic in practicing Portuguese until the Duolingo app reminded me how many days in a row I had practiced.  (My streak would have been much longer but for that one East coast trip where I forgot about the time-zone change.  Darn it!)  Taking an annual bike trip for seven years in a row now makes it more likely that I will take the time to plan next year’s fun trip. 

             Some rituals promote health; others simply create comforting familiarity.  I have deeply ingrained bedtime rituals that my dermatologist and dentist guilt-tripped me into starting.  I sleep on the same side of the bed every night, even when my husband is out of town.  I always put on my left shoe before my right.  Never in a million years could I eat dessert until the dinner plate is taken away.  I dress in workout clothes every single morning, even if I’ve scheduled a simple walking day.  I listen to pop music on the way to work and audible books on the way homes, and I never reverse that sequence.

             The beauty of streaking is that it catches your imagination and binds you to routines that counterbalance the uncontrollable parts of our lives.  So, although I’ll never take off my clothes and run around to create a ruckus, I’m an avid and invested streaker in other ways!