I am good at compartmentalizing. I mean, really good. I managed to shelve worrying for three solid months, concentrating on meetings and networking and interning.
I talked to my mom last night over google’s version of Skype. (What a nonsensical sentence. Imagine reading that 15 years ago.) I was sitting in my most comfortable old sweats, which double as pajamas. We were discussing hair products, and, as she tends to do whenever I share any of my discoveries in the beauty and personal hygiene department, she reminded my of my absolute refusal to take any of her advice in the same area as a teen-ager.
I never cared much for handwriting. For one thing, I learned to type when I was sixteen and never looked back. As the use of computers became pervasive, nearly every piece of information I wrote or received was typed. I took notes for classes on my laptop, wrote and received emails and set up reminders on my online calendar. Now, while I pursue informational interviews and work with clients in the courtroom, the computer is gone. My own handwriting, always the smudged, left-handed, half-cursive despair of my elementary school teachers, suddenly has to be legible again.