One sunny afternoon I hustled home from work, made a piña colada topped with a little umbrella, threw on my bathing suit and jumped into the hot tub in our backyard.
“Ahhhhhhh,” I said, flinging my head back to take in the sun.
My college senior daughter was hammocking in the backyard as her nails dried. “What are you doing home?” she asked.
“Just settled a big case about to go to trial. I’m celebrating.”
“That’s a lot of work,” she said. “Congratulations.” She made a piña colada, topped it with a little umbrella and joined me in the hot tub. We clinked glasses.
“It was like a tsunami,” I told her. “All of a sudden I’m drafting verdict forms, opposing motions in limine, defending proposed non-pattern jury instructions.”
“Well, now you have time to relax.”
“Do I? I’ve got a million things on my plate that I pushed off to prepare for trial.”
She didn’t say anything.
“I’ve done the math,” I continued. “Do you know I’ve been going to an office every day for 34 years. Except for COVID, when everyone was home.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me about being home during COVID,” she said. “Every day you walked around on speaker phone yelling ‘representative.’ I could barely take it.”
“Anyway,” I continued. “I was in school for 20 years before that.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. I could tell she thought she knew where this was going and that it was not interesting to her. She admired her blue fingernails as she sipped her piña colada.
“So basically,” I continued, “my last free time was 54 years ago — when I was five.”
“You cannot tell me that kindergarten monopolized all your time.”
“It’s been just relentless. Class, homework, essays, tests.”
“Everybody does that.”
“Not at my level,” I said. “I’m winning spelling bees, I’m class president, I’m yearbook editor.”
“I thought you were demoted from yearbook editor because you kept skipping meetings to hang out with some guy.”
“That’s me,” my husband said, watering plants nearby. “You’re welcome,” he said to my daughter.
“The world’s just always wanted a piece of me,” I explained as I adjusted my shades. “Kid wellness checks. Discovery disputes. Parent-teacher conferences. Summary judgment briefs. Every day I’m doing stuff other people want me to do.”
“You mean you have a purpose?”
“Whatever. I guess. But what’s the point if you’re exhausted?”
She twirled her umbrella. I could tell she was trying not to smile. “So — you’re always busy?”
Was that even a question?
“Girl, I am be-leag-uered,” I said, emphasizing each syllable.
“I don’t know, I’ve watched you, you seem to be able to carve out a little time for yourself.”
I considered that. “Sure, it may look that way. I mean, I don’t cook that often.”
“Ever,” said my daughter.
“I don’t garden much.”
“Ever,” said my husband. “The one time I left you to water you killed our rosebud tree.” He gestured to the nearby stump.
“I never get to work early,” I admitted.
“You were always in your bathrobe when I left for school,” my daughter agreed. “When I was little that confused me because my friends’ parents who dropped their kids off were dressed.”
“I do give all my boring work projects to associates.” I was thinking out loud now.
“Of course you do,” my daughter said. “You’re the same person who bragged about walking out of a college final because you were too hungover to finish.”
“The lights were so bright.”
“You went to a ton of matinees during law school.”
“It’s hot in Florida.”
“You barely attended any of my soccer games.”
“You were on so many teams! It would have been my whole weekend every weekend.”
“I rest my case,” she said.
“So, from your perspective,” I asked her, “was I even busy?”
“You were always doing stuff,” she said. “But were you busy? Hard to tell.”
“I’d separate which outfits belonged to your Polly Pockets and which belonged to your Barbies.”
“Yeah. No-one ever asked you to do that.”
“I kept the whole family’s frequent flyer mile accounts up to date.”
“Right. Those were all the calls I heard during COVID. When no-one could fly.”
I was not liking this. “I’m a pretty great person, you know. I am interested in other people even though no one is at my intellectual level.”
“And you’re humble.”
I stared at my celebratory piña colada with its little umbrella. Suddenly it seemed gauche, and I undeserving. If I haven’t been busy for 54 years, what have I been doing?
I turned to my daughter and my husband. “Did you know?”
“We knew,” my daughter said. “I knew when I was five and you handed me a kids’ cookbook and suggested I start making my own dinners.”
“I knew when you were a teenager,” my husband said. “You never had any money because you didn’t work, and you’d order expensive dinners and expect me to pay.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“What was there to say?” My husband shrugged. “You were harmless enough. Kinda cute. Entertaining in an unintentional way.”
“You’re describing a pet.”
Red faced, dripping, I flounced out of the hot tub. This was not happening. I am a universally-admired, forever-swamped overachiever.
But — what if I’m not? Just as I considered that horrifying thought, another, even more terrible one overtook it: Do other people know?
I turned to my husband and daughter. “Have you guys told anyone?”
They shook their heads. “It’s nobody’s business,” my husband said.
“Honestly, no offense, it just doesn’t come up,” my daughter said.
I mulled this over. Finally, I stood up, smoothed down my hair, put on my robe and stepped out front. Maybe things would be okay after all.
My neighbor, bringing in her mail, waved me over.
“Hey stranger,” she said. “Haven’t seen you in a while — burning the midnight oil as usual?”
“Well,” I said. “I did just settle a big case that was about to go to trial.”
“You’re amazing.” My neighbor shook her head. “You’re working all the time, your house looks great, your garden’s beautiful. I don’t know how you do it all.”
“I am always swamped,” I happily agreed.
“No really, what’s your secret?” she asked.
“Oh, my family’s part of it,” I said. Just then my phone rang, and I glanced down to see who was calling me. “Excuse me,” I said to my neighbor, “I need to take this very important client call.”
“Of course.” She stepped away to give me privacy.
“Hello?” I answered my phone.
“Hello, this is Costco. Your glasses are ready.”
Stephanie Andersen is a shareholder at Forsberg & Umlauf, P.S., and an unstinting optimist in the face of all evidence that she should know better.
