Adult Money.

By now, I'd become accustomed to the slight upward shift in countenance whenever people first learn that I am a lawyer, 6th year in practice.

 "Isn't it really long hours, fast-paced and demanding?"

 Yes, yes it is. Believe me, I could write a whole book on the toll it takes on you in every aspect of your life.

Why am I still in it for the long run? I don't know. Along with the the dignified sense that you're a learned member of society, the creative methods you have to employ to become a professional problem-solver, the different ways you narrate your Client's story to a curious Judge, the inevitable end result of your Client now becoming your enemy when it's time to ask for fees, the doing (and undoing) of multiple drafts before you come up with the perfect end product with a resounding sense of content in your chest where no words could do the feeling justice (pun unintended), the ever expanding vocabulary you have to accumulate to reflect a persuasive argument, the corporate coloured blazers, the office lunches and dinners with equal part pseudo laughs and awe, and maybe planning meetings centered around the checklist of cafes serving different coffees and burnt cheesecakes you have to tick off before you retire from the professional life for good, ... you get the idea. 

Sure there's the stress. 

Is my hair dropping in chunks, and simultaneously threatening to turn completely white? Yes. 

Am I the chunkiest weight I have been in life? Also yes. 

Is there a light to the end of this tunnel? We don't know.

But also, every once in a while, there is the fact that you are woken up by your natural body clock on a Saturday morning, no passive-aggressive boyfriend (or girlfriend) to stress over, and wonder whether they feel prioritised enough, no crying baby or eager husband demanding what little residues of body battery you have left, and no ailing relatives to look after and stress over the medical bills you would have to foot because they didn't "believe" in insurance. It makes no difference whether you checked your phone all day , but not in a depressive reclusive, psychopathic way but in a way that feels thoroughly liberating. You take a deeper breath than usual, and for the first time in a long time, truly, truly experience the air slowly fill your lungs. What a feeling it is to be alive. Today , particularly.

Your Garmin watch, which , not too long ago, felt like an unnecessary, bougie purchase, alerts you that your sleep was slightly less than ideal but it was enough recharge to take on the day. You dry out your fresh laundry on the balcony of the 41st floor, low-key wondering if it would feel the same in your own place. A waft of laundry perfume (something you didn't even know existed until recently) fills the air. It almost distracts you from the fact that in approximately one year, you would be paying off a housing loan which has a tenure for longer than you've walked earth. 

The morning sun rays are gentle, not intrusive , inviting hope that maybe today will be soft. You put on a long white dress and your signature red lipstick. Your skin is doing much better from getting good rest and being fed with modest amounts of skincare , which , not too long ago, felt like an avoidable expense and a byproduct of capitalism's chokehold grip. So, you do not have any foundation or concealer on. Plus, it's good to let the skin breathe once in a while. You water your balcony plants which gives you the illusion that you're perfectly capable of caring for another life form outside yourself.

It feels like a day to have a good, hearty brunch. A sense of entitlement creeps in. You worked hard for this. You know most of the day would be spent aggressively punching on keys to meet this one work deadline , so you decide on extravagance. You take a slow drive to your office , a Spotify playlist dissecting a verse of the Genesis chapter in the Bible lingering in the background. 15 minutes in, you find a parking close by. 

You walk past a french bistro that you've passed by most of your two years in Bangsar but never walked into because the mere appearance of it means you'd be burning a huge hole in your (e) wallet. But , fuck it. Work hard , play hard. Your eyes scan the menu and land on the most pretentious sounding item. Barramundi in almond butter with ratatouille. You pair it with an overpriced iced coffee. 

Aha. That's it. That's the order that's going to make any of these long hours feel justified.

As you take in the checkerboard tiling, the warm yellow lighting you've now associated with French dining, and pick up on all the Parisian references in the 10 steps it takes to get to your seat, you look around and see an Indian man trying to impress his chinese girlfriend by taking her to this "new place he found online". Beside you, a young man scans the menu for a good while. Shortly after another effeminate man walks in and takes a seat across him. You're seated alone, taking yourself out on a solo date. Coherent thoughts are flowing seamlessly in your head, so you start typing in your notes app. Your soft grin is reciprocated by the waiters' own, eager to see if there is something further they can do for you. 

You contemplate whether to book a Pilates class over the weekend, or wait out the luteal phase when your body feels so goddamn weak. As your fingers graze the fully booked schedule, you can't help but admire your freshly done cat-eye gel manicure. You asked for nails resembling the galaxy, some part motivated by the need to feel like you've got the whole world in your hands. Freshly threaded eyebrows, not a single stray hair visible on your moisturised skin, your head held high from sheer joy, so much so your mild double chin (born out of a sedentary lifestyle) almost disappears. You savour the meal before you, contemplating whether to compliment the French owner in his native language, a skill you only acquired because you couldn't silence a five-year itch to learn French formally, so you signed up to do just that, in a French school run by the French embassy. 

Just 5 years ago, you never imagined you'd become a Pilates girl. You never thought you'd buy your own car with the fear of driving and whatnot. You never thought you'd see the day where you'd pay obscene amounts of money for someone to beautify your nails. You never would have thought you'd learn bachata, formally learn French before you even mastered your own mother tongue, or even live out of your parents' home in exchange for one day owning YOUR house. But it is what it is. 

You realise that, you've became the template, white collar, Bangsar babe.

The divine brunch, now ended, brings about the realisation that it is time to work in the office for the next 7 hours. 

Ah, sweet, sweet capitalism. If you can't beat it, join it, amirite?