ABA Section of Business Law
Business Law Today
May/June 1999
From a distance
Surprise, surprise!
By James C. Freund
Freund is a retired partner at Skadden, Arps, Slate, Meagher & Flom LLP, in New York City, and is now of counsel to the firm.
When I retired from the practice of law, I expected that — liberated from client concerns — I would go to sleep earlier and wake up later than I was accustomed to doing. Once up and around in the morning, however, I assumed I would continue as always to shower, shave and dress (albeit more casually) to face the outside world.
With two years of retirement under my belt, I can now report that, contrary to expectation, I retire just as late and awake as early as I always did — passing up the health and related benefits of extended slumber — but many days I skip shaving and lounge around the house in sweats, displaying minimal interest in public interaction.
These are not isolated observations. Rather, I see now that in retirement, (a) a number of things that I thought would change didn’t, and (b) others I thought wouldn’t change did. (By way of example, my continued use of little letters in parentheses to differentiate parallel clauses falls directly into category (a) . . . . ) These personal surprises — which occasionally rise to the level of irony, contain a paradox or two, and even include a conundrum — may not be representative of the population at large, but I herewith (oops!) pass along several of them to show you what may be in store some day.
Stress. I correctly anticipated that life outside the law office would be a lot less stressful. This is, in fact, one of the real delights of being retired — the absence of client demands, time pressure, tense confrontations, thorny problems without apparent solutions, and so on.
What I failed to foresee, though, was how less adept I would become at coping with the sporadic stressful circumstances (having nothing to do with the practice of law) that intrude into one’s life. Take, for example, standing on a slow-moving line at an airline counter. What would have "come with the territory" back in my old stress-tough days now generates excess irritability for my newly low-stress self. Just watch me stamping my feet, shaking my head, muttering, "Can you believe this . . . ?" It’s embarrassing.
You want irony? — I’ll give you irony. My doctor just told me that my blood pressure has gone up since retirement. It was always a mystery to me how my blood pressure could stay so low when I was bouncing off the office walls; it’s an equal conundrum why my blood has chosen this otherwise tranquil moment to exert some added pressure . . . .
Telephone. When I practiced law, I considered the telephone an instrument of torture. Ring, ring, ring — with that feeling in my gut that this call will produce no good news; the pile of messages that awaited me on returning to the office; the frustration of phone tag; the track-you-down mentality of cell phones; and worst of all, the calls received at home, rudely interrupting those precious moments of down time.
I rightfully assumed that in retirement, with the bulk of my time being spent at home, the strident ring of the telephone would be much reduced. But I also expected that, as a result of eliminating communications from worried clients, irate adversaries and such, the calls that did come my way would mainly be welcome ones from friends and family. Forget it!
Family and friends account for maybe 15 percent of my daily lot. Fully one half are from people who want to sell me something. [I can tell right away, when the pronunciation of "Freund" is mangled or I’m addressed familiarly as "James." Independent pollsters have confirmed that my hang-ups to these solicitations ("Can’t talk, I’m on another line" — bang!) are among the fastest ever recorded.] Another 20 percent consist of calls for my wife, who runs a thriving real estate brokerage business and who — like her hubby in the old days — gives clients and colleagues her home number. About 5 percent are from my secretary who wants me to know she’s still alive and kicking; and the 10 percent balance are hang-ups — no one there, not even a heavy breather. You know what? My attitude toward the telephone hasn’t changed a bit.
Respect. I thought that, even though retired, I would continue to receive the same level of respect I had always enjoyed from those who knew me when. Just the other day, though, I needed to attend an early morning meeting, for which I donned a suit and tie and ordered a car from the company that has long serviced my old firm. As I climbed into the back, the driver twisted around, took one look at me and promptly exclaimed, "What the hell are you doing all dressed up?" Move over, Rodney Dangerfield, I know just how you feel . . . .
The small stuff. At the airport, on one of our recent trips, my wife — who is always advocating composure — brought me a little book positioned near the cash register, called Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff — and it’s all small stuff . (Richard Carlson, Hyperion, 1997). The book consists of 100 "simple ways to keep the little things from taking over your life." Let’s face it, there’s some good sound advice here, like, "Remind yourself that when you die, your ‘in basket’ won’t be empty" (so don’t worry about getting through your list of things to do each day); "Repeat to yourself, ‘Life isn’t an emergency’" (and thus avoid taking your goals so seriously as to turn simple preferences into conditions for your happiness); and "Keep asking yourself, ‘what’s really important?’" (in order to maintain your priorities and prevent getting lost in your own "busyness").
Master these precepts, said my wife, and you’ll be a lot calmer and happier. It seemed eminently logical, and my expectations were high.
For the next few days, I tried — I really did — but here’s what I soon discovered. The encrustation of 35 years of lawyering — during which the essence of being effective lay in your ability to successfully sweat the small stuff — is too resistant to change at this late date. I’ve got my priorities, sure, and I fully intend to get around to them, just as soon as I clear away some of the debris that causes me to wake up with a start in the middle of the night and reach for a pencil . . . .
Daily periodicals. I assumed I was going to remain fascinated by both the merger mania sweeping American business (for which daily perusal of The Wall Street Journal would remain requisite) and the gossipy doings of the bar (as duly reported in the pages of The American Lawyer and such). Wrong! I haven’t purchased a Journal or borrowed an American Lawyer since I retired — no interest. As a matter of fact, I became so absorbed in the day-to-day machinations of Monicagate — devouring everything in sight from racy tabloid stuff to heavy pretentious emanations — that were I still practicing, my billable hours would undoubtedly have been cut in half . . . .
Househusband. I’ll make this one brief. The thought did cross my mind that, with me at home and my wife out all day hard at work, I might assume some of the chores and duties she had juggled so efficiently during my working years — that I might even venture into the kitchen at some point and learn to prepare a few simple items. Score this one a goose egg (uncooked). I’m still not sure how to operate the stove, and I wait patiently each night for my wife to come home, exhausted, and then proceed to whip something together for my sustenance. Talk about spots on leopards . . . .
Memory. I’ll close with a paradox. I fully expected (and have not been disappointed in) the gradual reduction in retentiveness of one’s memory that accompanies aging and the absence of front-line responsibility. What I didn’t anticipate was how much more acute my memory would become in one particular area. Can you guess what it is?
It’s the ability to remember — with stunning clarity and generally commendable promptness — just what it was I previously forgot! So typically, when I leave the house without taking along some object I’m going to need, I invariably remember the oversight ("Damn!") within a 10-block radius from my front door. If I fail to tell my wife she received an important telephone call around dusk, it comes right back to mind no later than when we’re preparing for bed.
And when I write several items down on a "to do" list and promptly forget I’ve made such a list — let alone remember the matters that were on it — never fear, in the wee hours of that very night I’ll sit straight up in bed with a vivid recollection of having prepared the list. The additional problem to solve — just where did I put the piece of paper containing it — I’ll save for another day . . .
