The Accidental Inquisitor

So, per Dan‘s request, lemme tell you what an atrocious monster law school has rendered me.

One thing you have to read a lot of in law school is court cases. Many, many, often interminable and impenetrable court cases. And your job is to outlast and to penetrate.

You have to poke holes in the court’s reasoning. Explore alternate theories. Extend the logic the opinion is resting on to its absolute, and usually ridiculous, limit. And more important, seize upon details in the facts of the case that, if altered, might make it come out differently in some cock-eyed hypothetical your professor might put on an exam. Like, if he had been deeply religious, but NOT a mental patient, would the court have come out the same way?

This is your job.

And.

Oops!

All of a sudden you’re The Inquisitor.

Laurie may be telling me a long, involved (She is Southern. She can’t help it. Love you, Laurie! You are my memory.) story of why her day was lame. And one, small, miniscule part of that story might be that there was some idiot on the bus who smelled.

But suddenly! I NEED MORE DETAILS. Where was he sitting? Did YOU wear your deoderant that day? Was it raining? Were you wearing wool? How many seats away was he? Did the bus driver smile at you when you got on? What time did you get on the bus? What was he wearing? Did other people smell it? Really? Did they LOOK like they might have smelled it? Were they on the phone? Was the traffic bad? What day of the week was it?

And so on.

Because I NEED MORE DETAILS.

Because I’m trying to.. Um. FIND A HOLE IN MY BEST FRIEND’S STORY ABOUT WHY HER DAY SUCKED???

Because this is… NORMAL BEHAVIOR???

And then I get a knot in my stomach and realize, my life? Will never be the same.

Because I am The Inquisitor. I will never be able to hear a simple story from my friend about how a man on the bus smelled without wondering: But did he really smell? And even if he did, would one small change in circumstances mean she never would have noticed?

And this, let me tell you, is not the kind of friend you want to be.

And p.s.? It gets worse. Because, when I say that I wonder about a small change in circumstances dictating the outcome, I realize I am The Sliding Doors Inquistor. And we all know how I feel about fucking Gwyneth.

So if one day I name my child Pear or Cantaloupe, adopt a faux British accent and break up my shaggy husband’s band?

BLAME LAW SCHOOL.