I couldn't figure out why my stats were going haywire when I hadn't bothered to post anything in awhile. Then I realized that all those kids taking the bar were freaking out and apparently I'm a bit of an authority on the topic. (I also did this when I was studying the second time. Rereading that was like seeing the insane writing on the walls of a schizophrenic's room. Bar study is AWESOME.)
So to all you kids finding your way here because you just took the bar exam: calm yo'self. (I say that to my little dog all the time, when she gets riled up. It's said in the voice of Donna & Tom saying "Treat yo'self".)
I'm not religious, more spiritual if anything, but a friend said to me when I was in that long period of waiting for results, "Oh, it's in GOD'S hands now." She was half joking (she's Southern; it's a thing) but she was right. You did, hopefully, all that you could do on those test days. There is nothing else you can do now. It's out of your hands. It's in God's.
Actually it's in the hands of disgruntled associates grading your essays on mass transit or with a glass of wine after a long day, paying 30 seconds of attention to your essays to see if you hit the major points. But still: not in your hands. So go enjoy life and know that whatever the result come the day you find out, you'll survive.
I was actually pondering the other day how failing the first time, and I mean FAILING, was probably a good thing. For me at least. I could look at it and say, "Okay. You need a wholesale overhaul to how you did things last time. More effort and you'll be fine." A few friends failed by the narrowest of margins. One friend literally failed by one point. I don't know how you get off the mat to sit for a three day test knowing you were oh so close the first time. Other than knowing that you were oh so close the first time means you were doing things right. Still. Geezus, that sucks.
In other news: The reason for the brief blogging hiatus, as it were, is that the parents were out of town, on a trip to New Orleans (insane levels of jealously) then a cruise, and that meant I was in charge of the dogs. Which really shouldn't have been that big of a deal but they were kind of exhausting. Wake up, walk the dogs, walk them again, walk them some more, feed them, walk them, play with them, sleep. The medium sized dog gets all needy and the little dog has energy and... I'm a crazy dog person talking about my dog and you don't care so I'll stop now. I just really wish we had a grassy backyard and not the deck we never use.
And then I was an idiot. I went out to watch hockey and play pub trivia and I did that thing I knew I would do, had actually predicted: drank excessively. Wee!
The night ended with me coming home at 2 a.m., taking the dogs out, in the rain, and the medium sized dog, being the overeager jackass that he is, tugging and me tumbling down our wide set Spanish tiled front stairs. All 12 of them. Fortunately (?) I was drunk enough that while, I'm sure, comically crumpled in a ball at the bottom of the steps, I simply whined for a minute, yelled at the dog, and went back into the house and passed out.
In the morning (early afternoon) when I woke up I thought, "Why the hell does my hip hurt so much?" Then I remembered. "Ohhh...that's right. That also explains why EVERYTHING hurts. More than usual." Then I remembered more, it all coming back in terrifying flashes. I somehow managed to login to my password protected computer and facebook message a firefighter I had a thing with (dating would be generous) (who I am not "friends" with on there) imploring him to come take care of me. *cringe*
Shame is a powerful powerful emotion. I spent the next two days hiding thinking, "What have I DONE?" and avoiding facebook completely. (That place is really awful, you guys. It's all baby pictures and engagement announcements and makes me want to vomit even when I don't want to just vomit from excessive drinking.)
I told a guy friend about what had happened and he said, "Well, it's not like anyone KNOWS about what happened so it's really not a big deal, right?" This is why guy friends are adorable. I then told Linds. "Oh sister. I've been there. Condolences."
It's more about not having it as together as we think we should. Or something? I have no real illusions about being "together", I'm very obviously not. And what does "together" mean? It's sort of an amorphous, idealized standard of behavior. Still, as ladies, we're supposed to not drunk facebook message idiot exes from awhile ago that for inexplicable reasons are still stuck in the corners of our brain. We're supposed to magically run into them in this teeny tiny city while being perfect and put together and laugh and give them one of those, "Hahaha! See what you're missing out on!" looks while we flip our hair and sip our drink. Obviously.
The little red "you have a message" box on facebook is lit up. A week and a half later and I still can't bring myself to check it. Offers for signing into my account to read it and wittily respond will be accepted.
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