Yesterday was a momentous day in Calgary: E. was called to the bar. We’ve known E. since she was 14 (14? really?), but now she is full grown and fully employable. J. and I were honoured to be invited to her celebration.
I know this post should be all about E., but of course we need to start with my day, which was spent obsessing over what to wear. You see, I have a huge, ugly, multicoloured hematoma on my shin, and as it heals, my lower extremity is bruised and swollen. It is not pretty.
J. immediately nixed my wearing a dress, fearing I’d scare any small children in attendance. In fact, one little boy ran crying from the room during the proceedings, but I don’t think that was my fault. I decided on dress pants and a blouse, hopefully rendering me passable in the company of sharply attired lawyers.
Then there was the footwear challenge. Thanks to my injury, I have a full-blown cankle on my right leg. What, you’ve never heard of a cankle? In psychology speak, a cankle is a blurring of boundaries between calf and ankle. Chubby people have cankles, but so do people with swollen legs. My cankle is especially attractive because it is black and blue. Until this swelling subsides, my footwear options are limited. My overly casual sandals would have to suffice.
Finally there was the hair. I had booked in with my hairdresser that morning because a shearing was long overdue. He primped and preened me, even liberally applying the hair products I normally refuse. I prayed my nicely coiffed hair would distract people from my other wardrobe failings.
Because the event was scheduled during nap time, and all those difficult wardrobe decisions had exhausted me, I nodded off on the couch before heading out. (I was trying to preempt my sleeping at the event itself.) I often look like I’ve just gotten out of bed, but remember those hair products applied earlier? So much for smartly coiffed hair; after my nap, the right side of my do was completely flattened.
We’d all agree I looked a bit dishevelled by the time I arrived at the event. I could say I was trying not to steal Ms. L.L.B.’s thunder, but really I just looked like I do most days, if a little worse for wear. But I did manage to stay awake through the eloquent and insightful speeches which captured the new lawyer in all her glory.
If I’m honest, my psychologist self is a little jealous of this whole call-to-the-bar thing. I had to write my own speech, commonly called a thesis defense, and squirm through undermining challenges and questions on my insignificant research. I’d have much preferred listening to extensive adulation, with a little mockery thrown in for good measure, wouldn’t you?
Truth is, after years of hard work, Ms. L.L.B. deserves to be so proud of her accomplishments. Way to go, Princess! An exciting and stimulating career awaits. Here’s a nonalcoholic toast–what? no Prosecco?–and a huge Mazel Tov from me. Keep up the good work and you’ll be in Who’s Who Legal in no time.