The signs directed me through three or four different corridors—all brown and poorly lit—to a windowless room where other nervous Nellies loitered about in suits. Before I could open my mouth to introduce myself to a smallish, balding guy with a big mole on his nose, Martha Stewart’s doppelgänger flew through the door, came to a screeching halt, and started grinning like a horny frat guy.

“Welcome, clerks! We are just soooooo happy you’re here. Just a few things before you can get crackin’!”

For some reason, I’ve always felt embarrassed when people drop the gs off the end of conjugated verbs. So, I quickly turned my head to avoid eye contact with Ms. Martha. What I found was more troubling—many clerks had already broken off into little cliques. Why had nobody invited me? I was wearing a cute outfit and had great hair. What was the matter?

Thankfully, we got ushered out before I could totally freak about the lost popularity contest. Unceremoniously shoved out the door, I got pushed against the man with the mole, who had just turned to talk to a tall skinny girl.

“Where did you go to law school?” he asked her without saying hello.

“Northeastern.”

Apparently that wasn’t the right answer, and with nary a pause, he turned his back to her and walked away. Basically, Northeastern wasn’t a top-twenty law school, so the girl wasn’t worth his time.

Grades distinguished you in law school, making all of us future law clerks the kings of the hill while we were there. Since we were no longer in law school, grades were now defunct, and a new system of marginalization had emerged—where you went to law school. I had hovered above such pettiness in law school, though, and couldn’t be bothered now. This year’s focus was becoming Judge Friedman’s best friend. On the way to the elevator, I smiled just thinking about it.

“Hey, Sheila, can you join me at the club for a game of squash?” the judge would ask one random Tuesday afternoon.

“Sure thing, Judge. Funny, that reminds me of Wasp v. Wasp, 360 F.2d 1, where the second circuit found Wasp I to be liable for Wasp II’s eye injuries during a game of squash.”

“Bravo, Sheila, bravo!” The judge would clap as the interns kissed my grits.

Or, better yet, the whole gang sitting poolside with cocktails. One of my coclerks would note: “This reminds me of the time the dreadfully pinko liberal ninth circuit found martini-sipping poolside to be tortious activity.”

“Ah yes, but you forget there’s a circuit split on the issue, thanks to the fourth circuit,” I’d insightfully advise.

Round of applause. Sheila takes a bow.