Raspberry Iced M

I can never finish my coffee before it turns cold.

This is not a metaphor. This is a documented behavioral pattern.

Exhibit A: 8:02 a.m. As the workday starts, the coffee is poured. Confidence high. Inbox opened.

Exhibit B: 8:04 a.m. 28 emails have arrived during my off hours, all of which create more questions – and less clarity – than communication from the day before.

Exhibit C: 8:06 a.m. The coffee is abandoned while I search my desktop for a requested file, a file I know was saved yesterday as “XYZ_Revised.”

Exhibit D: 8:11 a.m. I find five versions, saved as “XYZ_Revised,” “XYZ_Revised(1),” “XYZ_Revised(2),” and so on. I decide this is already the worst day of my life and hop down the consequential bunny trail, trying to find the right one.

The coffee sits 9 inches away from my keyboard. Cooling. Judging.

By 8:19 a.m., I am six tabs deep into Westlaw, three tabs deep into Google, and one tab deep into, “Are my eyes puffy because I am literally allergic to deadlines?”

It’s now 8:23 a.m. when my phone chimes. It’s from my boss. “Quick question…”

And never has a question been quick.

The question is about a motion drafted a week ago – one I have forgotten about, as I’ve touched 103 files since then. To refresh my memory, I reread the complaint. I find, and correct, 4 formatting errors and double check the caption. I check the local rules to verify correct references, which then prompts the rhetorical question, “Am I, in fact, the weakest link in this entire operation?“

It is now 8:41 a.m. Coffee status – room temperature. Spirit status – oscillating.

Working from home is peaceful, in theory. It is certainly marketed as peaceful. “Maintain a work-life balance,” they say. And the idea makes people imagine soft sweaters and scented candles and efficiency.

In reality, I am whispering, “Why are you like this?” to myself while toggling between an affidavit, a call with opposing counsel, a calendar prompt that reminds me a demand was due three days ago, and a phone alarm that is reminding me to defrost chicken.

My brain does not process tasks linearly. It ricochets.

I begin working on some discovery, which reminds me to set a Teams meeting, which reminds me to answer a voicemail, which reminds me to research a statute, which reminds me to question my life choices. Yep, overthinking is always on time.

Back to the now cold coffee. I place the mug in the microwave and press 1:00. But I can’t watch the timer, because I’ve already thought of something else.

The microwave dings and I don’t retrieve my beverage, which happens more often than I am comfortable admitting.

At 10:12 a.m., I finally take a sip. Tastes like disappointment and productivity.

And here is the ironic twist: I am very good at my job.

My files are thorough. Deadlines are met. Case summaries are prestine. I catch things other people (including attorneys) miss. I anticipate arguments before they’re made.

I just cannot, apparently, under any circumstances, complete the task of drinking 12 ounces of sweet caffeine while it is still warm.

By noon, there are three half-finished drinks in various states of abandonment surrounding my workspace, like a timeline of my attention span.

Morning ambition. Mid-morning hyperfocus. Late-morning existential doubt.

And if liquids were measured in sustained temperature instead of ounces, I would be chronically and willfully under-caffeinated.

But at 5:01 p.m., when I log off and mentally review the day, the work is done. Clients are satisfied. Attorneys are happy. Malpractice suits are still non-existent. And I consider all of that a win.

I gather the cups.

Tomorrow, I will try again.

I will pour fresh coffee again at 8:02 a.m.

And I will absolutely not finish it before it turns cold.

But the motion will be filed.

And honestly? That feels legally binding enough.