WARNING: I'm in a crappy mood lately and this post reflects it. If you came for peach pie and a smile, I promise I will be serving that up again soon but today I just can't. Thank you for loving me in spite of it all.
In the last few months I've had lots of encounters with our nation's legal system. And there's one thing strikes me about the people who work in it - they incessantly wish me good luck.
I sign a form for a bailiff and as I hand the pen back, he says, "Good luck to you."
The judge tells me he's granting my petition for divorce and I shake his hand and he says, "I wish you good luck."
I write a letter to my lawyer telling her I'm switching to a new lawyer for the rest of the process but I do it in the NICEST way you can imagine because you all know how important it is to part on good terms. She responds with two words, "Good luck."
Then she sends me a bill for $19 for something that is petty and ridiculous and mean, so I send her another letter that says, "If you find you need to do something billable on my account please contact me in advance to get my authorization both for the work and for the charge."
And then I sign that letter "Good luck."
But amidst all of this good-luck-wishing, I wish I could snap my fingers and have a couple of cups of green tea appear and I wish I could invite the good-luck-wisher to sit down with me right there, wherever we are.
On the cold granite of the courthouse hallway.
On the rose-beige carpet of the courtroom.
On the hand-woven Persian silk rug in the mediator's office, which is a silvery blue color and shimmers in the afternoon sunlight and makes me want to dive into it and stay under until my lungs are ready to burst.
I wish I could tell them something that they already know, I know they already know. But I would tell them anyway, to make myself feel better, that it was a series of CHOICES, most of them good but enough of them bad, that led me into their courtroom or their office. Not luck.
Luck never had anything to do with it.
It never did.