I Dream of Door

I am going to ignore the fact that is has been 5 months since my last post. I will remedy this.

There are a few things that I figured I would be guaranteed after finishing law school and passing the bar: First, a decent salary, and second, a door. I shall explain.

“A decent salary” needs no explanation. The number I initially had in my head will remain in my head now that I realize, given the state of the economy, how ridiculous it is. Every day, post bar passage, this number has gotten lower…and lower…and lower. I’ve now resigned myself to the “as long as I can pay my bills and fill myself with cocktails on occasion” standard. Things are working out nicely in that department. What about my second, arguably more important guarantee? Not so much.

I want a door. Yes, a lovely wooden (at this point ill settle for any material sturdier than cardboard), four sided, handle bearing door. Why? Because a door = an office. To be fair, I currently work in an office. However, my work space hardly qualifies as such. Let me give you a mental picture:

Think laaaaarge open space with three, yes three, desks that are occupied by no less than two but up to four individuals….in one. big. space. Sounds like a cubicle? Um, no. A cubicle has WALLS. Our office manager and I are settled in the wide open spaces  of a “you can’t do anything because everyone, including clients, can hear everything” non-office.

It’s like when you got your first “non service industry job” in high school, or even college, and your boss didn’t have room for you so he stuck a small desk in some obscure location of the office for you….yeah. It’s like that…only with an honors undergraduate degree, a $200,000 legal education and a license from the State Bar of California. Bitter much?

What makes things better is the lobby of said “office.” Recently remodeled by gangster inspired entertainment agent/owner of our floor, the lobby boasts porn-like white leather couches, green walls and carpet and a ghastly large faux orchid focal point. It’s like the Standard Hotel, circa 1968, meshed with an Asian massage parlor and together they brought Tupac and Diddy posters along for the ride. Good lord ‘yo.

To be fair, working on my floor is great. The people are wonderful, including my boss, and I do find my work interesting. However, I do dream of working in a sans Asian/gangster porn den lobby, random desk placement in an undefined space office. I figured going to law school and becoming all professional and ‘stuff would lend itself to a professional work space. At least court appearances provide a reprieve…

Perhaps by the time I can afford more than top ramen and two buck chuck, I’ll get my door. Here’s to hoping.