Hours

Only a little over a week to go. In the past 6 weeks I billed over 300 hours, which meant more late-night meals in front of the computer than I care to remember and a constant state of physical and mental exhaustion, but at least this means that I will likely be eligible for the big year-end bonus, which is the one redeeming aspect of this job. (I have also been called a "trooper" by my boss on more than one occasion, but that did not really make me feel better.)

My main source of frustration with working these long hours (and this is something I only had time to articulate to myself as I lay in bed night after night, unable to sleep despite the exhaustion, trying not to wake my love with the sobbing fit I drove myself into) is that most of what I actually do on those nights is simply superfluous and unimportant as far as carrying out the ultimate goal (i.e. closing the transaction) goes. So even if I manage to set aside my ever-present general frustration with the lack of personal satisfaction I obtain from working on the (to me) uninteresting and meaningless transactions and attempt to focus on the task at hand, 85% of the time I end up feeling a very specific frustration with the waste of time and resources and inefficient management of affairs that leads to these marathon nights for no good reason.

On the upside, in the past six weeks I have also, finally, really started looking pregnant and I am enjoying the perks that come with it. Not just the seats on the subway, but the extra smiles and bonding opportunities. At a party last Saturday, where I knew hardly anyone, I grabbed a comfortable armchair and was prepared to people-watch, but the "women-with-children" kept coming up to me one after the other to chat about pregnancy, child-rearing and how nice and small I looked for an eight-month pregnant woman. Aside from the women with children there are also the "sensitive-and-involved-men-with-families," like my boss, who love to impart wisdom about things they feel they are experts on, such as labor and delivery (despite the obvious lack of personal experience). Then there are the "men-without-children-who-hope-not-to-have-any-anytime-soon." They are the ones who look up on the subway, see my belly and then turn back to their newspapers with a look that says: "I did not impregnate you, why should I have to give up my seat, go away."