Life in Six-Minute Increments

A practicing attorney since 2001, I have spent the better part of my career billing my time. I'm on the clock from the moment I walk into my office until day's end. If my bosses have reason to call me at home (they were gracious enough to let me be on my honeymoon, but they did call me with work-related questions and assignments, amongst other times, two days before my wedding, the day my grandfather died (three times), and two hours after I got out of surgery this past Thursday), then I keep billing even though I'm not at my desk or in court.

The life of a litigation associate requires an continued effort to bill as much as possible (albeit reasonably). Our boss' salaries, and, to a slightly lesser extent, our own, depend on attributing to various clients the time we spend performing tasks that further their causes. We don't work for free. While some time may be discounted or written off, and other bills will go uncollected, for the most part, the harder we work, the more our firms thrive.

I bill in fractions of an hour. One-tenth of an hour is the smallest amount I can bill. That means six-minute blocks.

(I shudder to think how much time I could bill if I were focusing on the legal memorandum I have to get out tomorrow, rather than penning this post. But -- damn it -- it's 8:44pm, and I want some time for myself. In truth, I suppose the mental break will allow me to return to the brief somewhat refreshed. That said, I doubt it'd be a justifiable allocation of time.)

Even bathroom breaks and lunch breaks have to be weighed against how much time we want to spend in the office.

In theory, the associate who bills the most is the biggest asset to the firm. Of course, that could mean a penalty for being too efficient: if it takes you only six hours to do what it'd take your colleagues ten hours to do, then unless your time is billed out at a higher rate, the result is that you have brought in less revenue than your colleague.

The thing is...

I always swore I was the type of person who worked to live, rather than vice-versa. And it's now 8:49pm, and I'm still at the office. With miles to go before I sleep (to sleep, perchance to dream). I'll be up before 8, and at work before 9:30, with plans to do it all over again tomorrow. Lather, rinse, repeat.

It's not that my efforts go unrecognized. I've held my job for over 22.5 months now. I've gotten two raises, and, often enough, have praise heaped on me. My bosses seem to take my input seriously. I get to go to court. I take depositions. I question witnesses in major proceedings. I'm developing skills and, I suppose, a valuable base of knowledge.

But something has got to give. I'm not the hardest working associate out there, and I'm certainly not the highest compensated. Even so? I'm making more than I ever have in my career, and I'm working harder. It's nearly always dark when I head for home.

I don't have any children yet. I just come home to an apartment with my husband and two cats (more on them later). No one really depends on me to do much in terms of domestic upkeep. If I sleep in, I just forego a shampoo, and no one is any the worse for it. If I don't feel like cooking, I order takeout, and life goes on. Groceries can be ordered online, as can pharmaceuticals and other household supplies -- I even outsource my laundry (no, I don't just mean dry cleaning).

So what suffers? My health, for one. I've gained a bunch of weight -- only small amounts, over time, but the cumulative effect is not a happy thing. I don't make it to the gym nearly as much as I'd like; considering what I pay in membership fees, I'd be better off paying a body-double to pose as me. And my relationship with the Mister.

When you're constantly exhausted, when you give the best of yourself, the hours when you're most awake, and when you're at your most coherent and productive, what do you have left over for the person you love best? It's amazing: perhaps, when you factor in hours spent sleeping side by side, he gets more face-time with me than anyone else. But when you discount it? How many six-minute increments does he get?

I met the Mister later in life. I was already an erstwhile Mrs. -- someone's discarded baggage. He didn't get to enjoy me, and I didn't get to give to him what I could have given, what I did give, when I was new, when I was one of "those innocent young maidens unicorns always come to," as Molly Grue once said. Don't get me wrong -- I'm still plenty scrappy and not without moxie -- but I used to have energy. And now I don't -- at least not like I did before. And it's only going to get worse.

You have to wonder: it's the work, and the billing for it, that keeps money in my bank account, food on my table, and a roof over my head. I can't just quit it. But it's the Mister, and the time I spend with him, that keeps me alive. How am I supposed to strike a balance?