We sit at our favorite table in the back of Alice’s Tea Cup, our favorite weekend breakfast spot. Per usual, the girls wear the sparkly fairy wings they were given on the way in. Their porcelain cheeks glisten with fairy dust that has been known to cure skinned knees. Toddler nibbles her banana bread, moist and brown. Baby gobbles her blackberries. Husband and I hold court, sipping green tea, waiting for our poached eggs to arrive. It is the portrait of Saturday morning civilization.

Until.

Until there is a grating crescendo in the normal brunch symphony. A droning voice breaks through din of controlled chaos at our table. Two words carry.

“Ivy League… blah blah blah… Ivy League… blah blah blah… Ivy League.”

Now, Husband and I are usually pretty good at tuning others out, at focusing on each other and the girls, but this becomes too much. We stop talking. And listen.

“I once worked at Polo. Can you believe it? I know. I was a polo shirt specialist. I knew everything about those shirts and everyone was so impressed, so impressed, but I was like… I am wasting my education. I shouldn’t be here. I mean I am applying to Ivy League law schools. I mean, really…”

Husband and I smile at each other. Sip away. Break banana bread into tiny bits for Baby.

“I mean, honestly, the only thing that is truly wrong about living in Tribeca and I have the hardest time getting to Bergdorf’s. It’s really a pain.”

At this, I turn to look. I can’t help it. I see him. He’s on the smaller side. Has meticulously-plucked brows. He wears, yes, a Polo shirt. He runs his hands through one of those long/shaggy/preppy lacrosse-player-haircuts. His wife, blond, pleasant-looking, clutches her swollen belly. She is very pregnant. I look away.

“Ugh. We have to go look at cabinets after this. Shoot me, right? They cost as much as a BMW but are not even cool. Ugh. Oh, honey! Remember when we went on that purse hunt? When we had to cajole that Chanel bag out of that guy at Barney’s???”

At this, Baby, now supporting an amazing blackberry goatee, swivels in her highchair and gives the obnoxious man a good old piercing baby stare. Apparently, the guy sees her doing this.

“Everyone stop moving. Stop talking. We are being watched.”

He is not smiling as he says this. He must be kidding.

I don’t think he is.

“Jesus, babies freak me out.”

I’m sure this is lovely for his pregnant wife to hear. And for my Baby to hear.

“I just wish I was a lawyer in the old days. Honey, remember when you had your associates run out and buy you jeans? Little suckers. Those were the days.”

They are lawyers. All four of them. The other couple says something about working in the Public Defender’s Office, but I can’t really hear them because they speak at a Normal Person Decibel.

“Well, you should at least move to the South or to the Midwest. Where there is actually some crime. Hell, there’s nothing going on there, but at least there are murders. Hell, those places are practically known for their murders.”

Husband and I stare at each other in disbelief. Our eggs have arrived. Our waitress rolls her eyes and mutters so sorry before slipping away. And Husband and I smile. At her before she goes. At each other. At our girls who giggle in oblivion. Baby turns around to stare some more. Again, the man makes some crack about the sheer horror of being observed by a one-year-old.

“Well, this is blogworthy,” I say to Husband. “This guy should be a character in my next book. He’s that bad.”

Truth be told, he would not be a good character in a book because he is a caricature. A living and breathing and horrendous cliche.

And then Husband takes the words right out of my mouth.

“I have to get a picture of this guy,” Husband says. He pulls out his iPhone, fiddles with it, and pretends to help Baby with her food.

He gets a good shot. A perfect shot.

A shot which I immediately envision posting on my blog. How perfect!

(But then I come to my boring old senses and decide that I will not do this because I am a good girl and I have no interest in going the snark route on this blog. Because I have no interest in posting an actual picture of an actual person who was just trying to enjoy a subdued brunch of tea and scones on a Saturday morning. Right.)

As he and his party pay the check, Mr. Obnoxious continues to blabber on about everything offensive.

Ivy League!… Chanel!… I am basically just a sperm donor!… The South? Yuck!… Did I mention I played lacrosse in college?… I am a lawyer!… Ivy League!

Talk about Ivy League insecurities.

__________________

Describe the most obnoxious person you’ve ever encountered. Come on. No holding back. Tell me. (Even if it’s me. Hey, I blab from time to time about the Ivy League – witness this post. Maybe I am just a milder version of this monster? Uh oh.) Do you have an impression of Ivy Leaguers (or New Yorkers or Americans or lawyers) that is at all like this terrible guy? Do you think that people act this way because they are profoundly insecure or because they are missing some socialization chip? Do you think people like this have any clue how obnoxious they are? Is acting like this an intentional, attention-seeking ploy?

ILI DAILY CHARMS

* {Wonderful musing on the exquisite escalator that is parenthood} The Moving Staircase from Being Rudri.

* {”Striving for balance is a losing game”} The Suck Factor of Life Balance, + Passion as a Cure to Stress from White Hot Truth.

* {Always ask the big questions – even about blogging} Why We Read Blogs from An Attitude Adjustment.

* {What inspires you to blog?} Inspiration: My Journey in Blogging from Coffees and Commutes

* {”Part of evolving is our capacity for reinvention”} Who Do Think You Are? from The Halfway Point

I am the product of an elite education. Dalton. Yale. Columbia Law.

The point of this post is not to remind you of my scholastic pedigree. No. The point is a lot more complicated. And decidedly more vulnerable. The point is hazy, but it exists. And here I sit squinting, trying to see it. Because this blogging gig? It’s not just about hawking my words and sentences. No. It’s about excavating my own neuroses. It’s about analyzing my own anxiety.

And I know better. I know that I am Me. That I am knee-deep in said neuroses and awash in said anxiety and no matter how hard I try, I probably won’t be able to arrive at an objective diagnosis. Of course not. But that won’t stop me from trying. I like a good challenge.

And I know better. That it’s one thing to have an exquisite education and glittering opportunities and incomparable connections. But it is another thing to talk about these things. And yet another to put them in writing. These are things to be thankful for, but things that should not be discussed. No. These are trappings of privilege. And privilege is a taboo subject.

Never talk about privilege.

You know what? Like so many of you, I am a bit sick of should. I am a bit perplexed by social strictures that seem a bit stiff. I am interested in honesty, in universality, in cracks. And I have cracks. They aren’t even tiny. They are big and bold and jagged. Stuffed with genuine worry, authentic questions, and notable insecurities. So maybe I am being imprudent here, but I am going to talk about the cracks.

I loved the schools I attended. Loved. And maybe this is not customary. But my experience was positive at each alma mater. I remember particular teachers. Particular books. Particular papers I wrote. Particular seminar discussions. My school days were bright and busy and, frankly, I miss them sometimes.

At school, I worked hard. Hard enough to get A’s and a sprinkling of lesser grades that made me sweat. Hard enough to graduate with an accolade or honor here and there. Hard enough to make that resume shine. Hard enough that graduation days were rich celebrations, beautiful bridges between one great place and the next. Hard enough that at the end of it all, I passed a very hard and miserable exam, and landed gracefully at a high wattage Manhattan law firm.

And at that law firm, I did just fine. I was an efficient and ebullient cog in a well-oiled machine. I got decent reviews. I got along well with my colleagues. And then I fled. And fast.

And now. Now I am home. And working. And mothering. And writing.

And worrying.

Worrying about a lot of things because this is a parent’s job. But worried from time to time about one thing in particular that I have been prudent enough not to articulate to myself. Or to the masses.

Until now.

Sometimes, I worry that I have wasted my education. And I know this might seem silly. Or even offensive. But sometimes I feel that with my particular degrees from my particular alma maters I should be doing more. That I should be doing something more meaningful. That I should be helping more people, or solving environmental or political crises, or rising in the ranks at some major uber-powerful institution that does good things. Sometimes, I worry that I took plum spots at stellar schools that could have been filled by others who were a bit more hungry and a bit more ambitious to alter the flawed landscape of our world, to fix the problems that need fixing, to amount to some more conventional glossy greatness.

This is why I gave this blog its name. Because though Ivy, I’m quite insecure. (Maybe because I am Ivy, I am particularly insecure because I am particularly aware of, and strangled by, shoulds?)

This is why I am treading tricky trenches here. Risking something. Talking a bit more openly.

Because as time passes, my own worries are becoming less opaque and I want to explore them. Because I think that in tracing the contours of my own insecurity, I am surprisingly gaining confidence. I think I am beginning to believe that my education hasn’t been wasted, but has been put to very good use.

I learned to write at these fine schools. I learned to think at these fine schools. I learned to ask questions at these fine schools.

Maybe that’s why I am willing to go there. To that raw and risky place of things not to discuss. To utter sentiments that might provoke. To ruffle pretty and peaceful feathers.

Maybe that’s why I am willing to come here. To this safe haven. To confess shards of complicated truth. To expose cracks.

Because I am finally realizing that I worked so hard, that I continue to work so hard, for a reason.

The reason? This.

This life. This family. These words. This story and its infinite and unfolding chapters.

Or maybe I have wasted it all and I am making big, bad excuses that are clever and well-told.

But I don’t think so. I don’t.

Not anymore.

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• Looking back, how do you feel about your education? Overall, was it a positive or negative experience or somewhere in between?
  
• Do you think you have made the most of your opportunities or do you sometimes wonder? Do you think you have succeeded because of your education or despite it?
  
• Do you ever have this sinking and shaky feeling that you have wasted something? Time? Love? An opportunity – educational or personal or romantic?
• Do you think that someone with two Ivy League degrees should be engaged in something more “serious” than raising kids and weaving self-indulgent words?

ILI DAILY CHARMS

* “You are not your stats.” A sage reminder for bloggers and non-bloggers alike from Megan Jordan at Velveteen Mind.

* What good are dreams? Big question and beautiful words courtesy of Big Little Wolf of Daily Plate of Crazy.

* Is there a solace in silence? How do you manifest your rage? Deep questions that will make your brain buzz from Ronna Detrick of Renegade Conversations.

Today Sister C sits for the first day of the New York Bar Exam. And I am nauseous. Not nauseous because I am worried she won’t pass. I think she will. Nauseous because I remember that exam all too well. Nauseous because those were two of the most torturous days of my youngish life.

And she hasn’t passed yet, but I am already so proud. I am proud because C has been studying hard, pulling late nights, and she has a young baby. Baby Bulldog is just six months old and C has been logging endless hours learning the bland intricacies of New York law (blech) when she could have been tickling tiny toes. I am proud because I know this hasn’t been easy.

So, yes. She got pregnant in law school. And gave birth a few months after graduation. Many would say that she should have graduated and taken the bar exam with her peers this past July. Many would say that she should have gotten the career rolling before popping out a delectably cute son. Many would say she did things out of order. That it should have been Bar before Baby and not the reverse.

But I disagree.

And not just because she is my sister and I love her to tiny pieces. I disagree on more objective, principled grounds. I think this society of ours is far too obsessed with its schedule of shoulds. Who says it is always better to firm up a career before starting a family? Who says we shouldn’t sometimes do things at the same time? Who says it is always better to wait?

Many people would say that Sister C should have waited. But you know what? She had the courage not to. When Dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer two weeks before Sister C’s wedding, things changed. Our Donnelley world shifted. I think, I know, Sister C realized like I did that life has cruel limits, that days are unpredictably numbered. I think, I know, she realized that family is it. And so, she went for it. She battled morning sickness while studying at school. She donned a polyester cap and gown in her final trimester. She spent several weeks at a law firm before welcoming her little guy.

And today. Today, she will kiss her little boy goodbye and go sit at a desk somewhere in this fine city and fill in tiny bubbles and take a big step toward a big future that is blindingly bright, but unknown. And when the long day is over, she will go home. To her man. To her baby. To her family.

And then tomorrow, she will do it again. And then it will be over, mercifully over, and I will take her out. And we will celebrate. We will go to the right kind of bar and sip a tall glass of wine. We will talk about babies. About family. About futures. We will talk about life. How, like the bar exam, it is multiple choice. But how in life, there is more than one right answer.

We will clink glasses and smile.

Two lawyers. One past. One future.

Two sisters. Always.

Two moms. Forever.

And I will say then what I write now. That I am deeply proud of her. For being exquisitely brave. For doing things in her own way. In her own order. For blazing her own trail. For having a baby, an impossibly sweet baby, before taking that exam.

For not waiting.

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Leave a comment and wish Sister C good luck! Do you agree that there is no such thing as out of order when it comes to life? That there is no objective schedule of achievement we should heed? Do you think that having a child before cultivating a career is brave or foolish? What are you waiting for?

ILI Daily Charms

* Do we lose ourselves in marriage? Stephanie Klein seems to think so. Click over to read her raw and searching post on the fate of self in the sea of commitment.

* Are pictures enough? Becca from Drama for Mama serves up a timely reminder that blogging isn’t such an empty endeavor and easy catharsis after all. Maybe there is a profound purpose in memorializing moments that might otherwise fade.

* Do therapists mess up their kids? Yes, according to Bruce over at Privilege of Parenting. But Bruce assures us that, “we ALL mess up our kids in our own unique ways.” Cheerio!

There. It’s out.

I met Husband in a bar.

Eight years, two cats, and two kids later, and I finally feel (sort of) comfortable announcing this to the world. I met the love of my life (awwwww) in a darkened, booze-addled, Manhattan bar. Called Prohibition no less. Sue me. You will not win a dime. It is not illegal to find romance in a moderately cheesy meet-market of a jazz bar. (Look, I am an actual lawyer. I checked. It is totally fine to meet someone this way. Yes, even a husband.)

Okay. It is legal. But is it legit? Is it something to, say, shout from the rooftops? Or the blogtops?

Yes, I think so. I know so. Yes.

And I will tell you why. Right now.

You can find love, real love, ridiculous love, anywhere.

It’s true. Anywhere.

For so long, I fielded the question. That question everyone just adores to ask. How did you meet? And you know what? I don’t blame them. It’s an easy question. I’ve asked it. It’s kind of like talking about the weather. It’s safe territory. Seemingly safe territory. The thing is that I didn’t feel safe when people asked me this purportedly safe softball of a question. No. I wished that I could tell people that we met in school, or through family friends. I felt like I needed to come up with a go-to script. And so I did.

You guys are soooooo cute together.

Thanks.

Where did you meet again?

[Uncomfortable pause. Requisite sip gulp of the Pinot Grigio.] Oh, we met in the neighborhood.

Oh. That’s sooooo great.

Yes, it is. And it’s a soggy little lie. Actually, not. Prohibition is in the neighborhood! Even with his stiff old categorical imperatives, Kant would approve. (Maybe. Okay, likely not. But he’s not around anymore.)

I didn’t lie, but I tweaked the truth. To make our story more appropriate, more legitimate, more packaged for mass consumption. But now? Now I’m not interested in quasi-truths, but real ones. I don’t want storybook rainbows.

I want reality.

And so. Here is our story.

Not because you deserve it. But because I want to tell it. I love stories. I live for stories. I collect them like stamps. I store them away in my buzzing brain and my blooming blog. For later. To tell. Stories become posts. Stories become books. Stories become marriages.

Stories become lives.

I was in law school. My best friends and I planned a girls’ night out. It was a Thursday night. We gathered in one of our apartments. Dressed all in black of course. We sipped Pinot Grigio. We talked and talked. About things serious and silly. About impending exams and celebrity gossip. About the dreaded bar exam. And boys. Even pretentious (oh, and I was. And am?) Ivy Leaguers talk about boys. We talked and talked and then we headed out. To pop by all of our favorite West Side bars. We made cameos. We emitted civilized and sexy laughter. And we moved on. I remember something so vividly about that night. Something so great. That something? It was just us girls. As much as we talked about boys, we were focused on each other. On our friendships. On girl time.

Until.

Until we (a) either had too much Pinot Grigio; or (b) saw him. And by him, I mean Husband.

We walked into Prohibition. It was late. The bar was pretty empty. The band was packing up its equipment. I spotted the silhouette of a tall guy with spiky hair. My friend noticed him too. (Hey, J!!) In unison, we said, “Now, he’s hot.” J and I had the very same taste in men. So much so that it had caused a problem or two in the past. But this didn’t matter. There would be no catfight! This was a girls’ night after all. No boys allowed.

Except.

Except that J, more daring than I will ever dream of being, went right up to Husband and started chatting with him. But there was a charitable aspect to this encounter. In no time, she sent him over to me. Before I knew it, our girls’ night included one boy. A boy who would, in about two years’ time, ask me a certain question. Who would in about three years’ time, become my man.

But that night? That first night? That first page? We talked. Uncertainly. Softly. Even in the dark bar, I noticed his impossible eyes. The ocean blue. He told me he had just moved to New York. I loved that he was not from here. He told me that he played soccer in college. I love soccer. He told me where he went to school. It was not an Ivy League. I loved this. I loved that he was intelligent. And polite. And soooooo painfully handsome.

Well, that was it. It. One night. One random night on which we were not meant to look at boys.

One night.

From that night on, we were inseparable. Best friends. Everything.

And eight or so years later, here we are. We just had dinner together. Takeout. On the couch. And now he is thrilled to be watching Heroes as I write this. We are, dare I say, happy. Raising two sweet little girls. Enjoying a bounty of laughter and love. Dealing with the sublime and subversive curveballs Life has a way of throwing: insecurity, sickness, chaos, renovations, and loss.

This is our story. Our love story. And, finally, I have the guts to tell it. Finally.

This is a story I will tell my girls someday. Yes, when they are old enough and curious enough, I will tell them about the rueful randomness of life and love. About chance. About luck. About the fine art of stumbling. I will tell them that if they live life with their eyes open, good things can happen when they least expect them. I will tell them these things. These are things I want them to know.

This is our story. This is our life.

Stories exist everywhere. So does love.

Just let yourself look.

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Do you think there are more and less legitimate ways of meeting people, of finding lasting love? Is meeting someone in school somehow more legitimate than meeting someone in a bar, or online, or at jury duty? Where did you meet your person? Where do you hope to meet your person? What’s the most random or amazing or unbelievable love encounter story you’ve ever heard?

***You know the drill. Leave a comment here today (1/6/10) by 11pm EST and you will be eligible to win a copy of Gretchen Rubin’s wonderful new book THE HAPPINESS PROJECT. Yesterday’s lucky winner was Kimberly… ***

Count ‘em. Yup, five. Five cute little images of Gretchen Rubin’s new book THE HAPPINESS PROJECT. Not because I like repeating images. (I do. They make me think of wallpaper and I love wallpaper.) Not because five is my favorite number. (That would be thirty-three. Because of Larry Bird. Duh.) Not because I am one of five sisters. (I am. The middle. The smartest. I kid. Believe me.) No, there are five tiny pictures because I am giving away five copies of this book this week. One each weekday.

Oh.

There are voices. That’s a lot of books. Are you perchance trying to kiss up to Ms. Rubin? Are you trying to, say, buy some comment love? Are you perhaps getting a little carried away?

And to these voices, I respond. And firmly. Yes, it’s a lot of books. But my motives are pure. Wait, I don’t even have motives. Wait, are any motives pure? Doesn’t everyone have motives? What, really, is a motive?

And then, because the voices get annoyed with my sudden plunge into semantic gymnastics, they extinguish. And I’m left with thorny silence in which I should probably explain myself. Fine.

I am giving away five books because that’s how much I liked the book. I am enthusiastic about the book. I am enthusiastic about Gretchen Rubin and what she stands for. (Take that, voices.) It occurred to me though that it would be a bit bizarre to scatter these goodies around the nation – or globe (Hey, I’ve had two readers pop by from Ghana. You never know) without telling you a little about the book and why I found it so compelling.

So, here I am doing just that.

I must disclose that I have had the good fortune of meeting Gretchen a couple of times here in the big city. We were introduced by the incomparable Danielle LaPorte of White Hot Truth fame. Presumably, Danielle guessed that Gretchen and I – with our similar paths of leaving the practice of law to write – would hit it off. And she was right. (At least in my opinion. I can’t speak for Gretchen.) Gretchen has been very kind and helpful to me as I have entered this blog world. I have been an avid follower of her blog and like so many of you, I have eagerly awaited the publication of this book. (The one there are five of above.)

But. Yes, there is a but. I never told Gretchen this, but the minute I heard about her project, her apparent aim to study happiness like a science, red flags popped up for me. They waved furiously in that foreboding and figurative wind of doubt (note to self: everything in moderation. Even alliteration). I immediately thought of a quote that Gretchen happens to mention in her book and on the front page of her blog. A quote by John Stuart Mill and a theory Gretchen rejects, namely “Ask yourself whether you are happy, and you cease to be so.”

Instinctively, I have always felt that the more we strive for happiness, the more we analyze our own behaviors and emotions and existential shifts, the more miserable we become. (Maybe this is why I dropped out of my not-so-cheap Positive Psychology course a few months ago? Nope. I think it was the fact that I had seventy-eight million things on my plate and it was a pipe dream to think I could complete the class.)

So. I was utterly prepared to read Gretchen’s words – which I had no doubt would be thoughtfully and artfully conveyed – while shaking my head in fervent disagreement.

But that didn’t happen. No.

I opened the book. And read a bit. I was at my in-laws’ for Christmas, so I didn’t really have the time to devour it. It was a week to be with family. But I kept sneaking back and reading a bit more. A few sentences. A few pages. Fine, a chapter. I couldn’t stop. In every spare moment in the following days, I flipped open that bright blue book with that poetic bluebird on the cover. And, very quickly, it became clear. Gretchen was onto something. Something big. Something universal.

No matter who we are and where we are and what our circumstances are, we can do things – some smaller, some bigger – to be happier. Not Happy in that capital “H” Platonic ideal way. Just happier.

Gretchen does not only quote a bevy of great thinkers (she does, and powerfully), but she offers her own thoughts as they evolve and take shape. Nor does she hide out in the world of theory, of intangible and lofty pronouncements. She talks about practical things that made her happier. (She is very careful to note that everyone’s happiness project is ultimately idiosyncratic.) Practical, more concrete things like: get more sleep, clean out closets, sing in the morning, embrace failure. (Okay, that last one’s not super concrete, but she elaborates well in the book.)

But it’s not the litany of practical tips that grabbed me. No. It was the story. Because this book? It is a story. A story of one woman – yes, an exceedingly intelligent and educated woman who has an admittedly good life and good family – who took it upon herself to learn about that elusive thing we all covet and crave whether we admit it or not: happiness. Because let’s admit it, folks. It’s what we all want. All of us.

So, yes. I was wrong. And I am thrilled to admit that.

So, yes. I am inspired. I am a lawyer who walked away to try to write, to try to be happier. So seeing this woman whom I respect live her dream and tell her story – and be met with monumental success (she is already on several bestseller lists and on Oprah’s 2010 must-read list I believe. Not too shabby) – is exciting for me to see. And you know what? I have already started putting some of Gretchen’s goodies into practice. (You should see my closet. But not ’til Friday. I got derailed by the must-have flu of the season. Oh, and I plan to trick the girls with a bowl of frozen Cheerios in April. You must read to understand.)

So, yes. I am enthusiastic. And as Gretchen herself said on her blog just yesterday, “Enthusiasm is a form of social courage; it’s safer to criticize and scoff than to praise and embrace.”

So here I am, thwarting that powerful human instinct to be cynical and suspicious. Here I am, praising a woman who deserves it. A woman who is getting rave reviews from the likes of Fred Wilson, Chris Guillebeau, and The Communicatrix. (I am plenty self-delusional, but even I know that Gretchen in no way needs the clumsy words of a rookie-ish blogger and admiring acquaintance-plus. But these words are my giveaway to her. You get the book. If you are lucky.)

Here I am, embracing a book – and, really, a way of thinking – that might just make us happier. (Oh, and kissing up, buying an audience, and getting carried away. Calm down. I joke! Gretchen tells us to lighten up! She quotes British writer G. K. Chesterton more than once: “It is easy to be heavy; hard to be light.” )

So… that’s why there are five. Okay? Now leave a comment and win one of them! (And stay tuned for some other goodies this week including a story about a pregnancy test, my Philosophy for the New Year, and a belated birthday letter to my big girl.)

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Intellectually, do you agree that we can work to be more happy with ourselves and our lives or do you instinctively side with Mill in his contention that the contemplation of happiness and its essence is a recipe for unhappiness?

***Leave a comment here today (1/5/10) before 11pm EST and you will get a copy of this book with which I am apparently a wee bit obsessed. Oh, and yesterday’s lucky winner was…Amy!***