For the record: I left property management for a career in law because of a TV show. Not a documentary. Not a podcast. A show. With fictional windows. And a fictional understanding of what the word paralegal means.
I don’t want to talk about it. Except I absolutely do.
Donna didn’t have a private office. She didn’t need one. She had a desk, a latte, a wardrobe that could end careers, and attorneys who physically rearranged themselves when she walked into a room. Nobody questioned Donna. Nobody looked at Donna sideways. I watched that woman and I thought: yes. Whatever that is. I want that.
I enrolled in school because of it. Got my degree. Showed up day one with full Donna energy.
READER, sit down.
Because nothing, and I mean nothing, prepared me for what I was about to experience. They paraded me into a long open room, actually more like a fat hallway, with a row of desks separated by cubicles. And presented it like it was a gift from the heavens. The Temu version of something that was supposed to be epic.
I placed my belongings down like I was planting a flag and claiming space. The glares from every cubicle onward were piercing. Not the friendly welcome I dreamed about.
The firm tour was something. I will just say that. Walking the hallways. Nodding. Smiling. Watching two years of school follow behind me like a ghost asking questions I couldn’t answer. I either had bad juju coming back to collect, or this was actually my life now. Neither option was great.
First week, an attorney called me a secretary. Okay. New job. Grace period. Fine.
Called me a secretary again. Noted.
Third time. Same man. Same day. I looked down at my paralegal degree, which I had paid for and studied for and, yes, framed, and I thought: one of us is confused about what is happening here and I am beginning to suspect it might be me.
And then December arrived.
The attorneys had a cocktail hour. Open bar. Passed appetizers. The whole production.
We got an email. Subject line: Holiday Party. Body: The restaurant name, the time, and a short line that read: Just the staff.
We walked across the street. Unaccompanied. Like a herd of sheep. The firm covered the check, you know… to show their “appreciation.”
Nothing like Happy Holidays with a side of bread and back to work in under 58 minutes.
And then… there’s the bathroom.
Not as a room. As a consequence. Because if you were away from your desk for more than four minutes, someone noticed. God forbid the one time your lunch didn’t quite agree with you and you were desperately hoping no one was running a timestamp on your absence. Or the coffee you sprinted to the kitchen and back to secure decided that instead of quietly fueling you through the rest of the afternoon, it had… other plans.
Paralegals and lawyers run on caffeine. It is basically an IV drip with a dress code. So why, exactly, was refilling your cup treated like a firm sin? Full cup = functioning human. Empty seat = a conversation about your commitment level. We were not delivering babies, people. We were getting paper cuts and sending emails.
And the people. Okay. I have to talk about the people.
I assumed new job meant new friends. That was adorable of me. New job meant new person. New person meant threat assessment. I had frenemies before I had a firm email address.
Not everyone in that building was operating at the level Suits had implied. Some of the people making decisions were, and I am choosing my words here, not the brightest color in the crayon box. Front desk. Paralegals. New attorneys. The whole box, honestly.
I kept the shoes.
Donna would have lasted a week.
The Unredacted Paralegal™