The First Year of Law School

When I tell people I’m in law school, quite often, they will say to me, “I thought of going to law school, too,” as if, somehow, thinking about it is exactly the same as going. I have to tell you right now, it’s not. The first year is especially rough, and I mean rough in a way that is not normal to humans. So, just in case you are getting any ideas about actually going to law school, I’d like to provide you the complete list of “What the First Year of Law School Is Like.”

The first year of law school is like finding a swinging door that is being held open by a doorstop, and pulling out the doorstop so the door smacks you in the face. But over and over again.

It’s like gathering every person in your life who’s ever told you that you suck into one room, and asking them to provide you feedback.

It is like every dream that you have had where you show up on test day, having completely forgotten to study for the test.

It is also like standing in line at the DMV for 14 weeks in a row, but the eye test in the end is written in invisible ink. In Cyrillic.

The first year of law school is that thing that makes you wish you had just been happy with that barista job at Starbucks. If you’ve never had a barista job at Starbucks, it makes you seriously envy those who do.

It is like going to a party that you thought was going to be really fun, but as it turns out, the only thing you had to wear is a dress that totally makes you look fat, every person you’ve ever hated in your life is there, and the only refreshment that’s set out is a bowl of mustard.

It is like someone asking you if they can pet your adorable new puppy, and then punching it directly in the face.

Often, it’s like creating an exact scale model of Monticello, complete with tiny, embroidered upholstery and tiny cloves wearing overalls to represent all the slaves, spending three solid nights practically deforming your arm so that you could create an exact replica of the fresco on the ceiling of the tiny-but-exactly-to-scale grand room, and having your third grade teacher look at it dismissively, fart, and toss it in the trashcan.

It is like running a marathon….and then being told that they forgot to start the clock, so you need to run it again. But this time they’re going to release thirty hungry saber-toothed tigers.

It is like sending a letter to your friends, your family, and all of the things you enjoy, that says, “For the next year, you will be living with a hollow-eyed, paranoid, stressed and often irrational stranger. The real me will see you in a year. Maybe.”

It’s like being forced to undergo repeated cavity search by burly, mustachioed police officers with halitosis, and at the end, being given a bill for $20,000.

It is like going up to every person you’ve ever met in your life, and asking them, “Do you like me?” and having them respond, “That depends.”

It is like driving your 1990 Ford Festiva with bald tires and nonexistent brake pads down a road that is half oil slick, half ice storm, with fogged up windows and a baby throwing up in the back seat.

And, after all of that, you will find yourself, two years later, reminiscing about the good old days when you were a 1L. So I guess it was totally fun.