Mitchell’s Malarkey

MITCHELL’S MALARKEY By: T. Mitchell Panter

Lewis Thomason, P.C.

OKAY CAMPERS, RISE AND SHINE!

Well, we made it to another year. Before I was a lawyer, and when dinosaurs roamed the earth, this was a time for celebration and gratitude. Each year represented a new beginning with new opportunities. The slate from last year was wiped clean, and I was reborn and could confidently start over, chart a new path, make a difference, and embrace what new and exciting things were on the horizon. Now, as a lawyer, it’s Groundhog Day, and I’m Bill Murray: desperately in search for new ways out.

I rest comfortably with the assumption that many of you are in the same boat. When the clock strikes midnight on December 31, there is no cause for celebration and no amount of champagne or number of spirited renditions of Auld Lang Syne can distract me from the overwhelming grief I feel at the thought of my billable hours rolling back to zero. Everything I put off in December now needs immediate attention. Opposing counsel who was so magnanimous over the holidays is suddenly possessed, bloodthirsty, and insistent that we “get this case moving.” Never mind the fact that he’s overdue on discovery and hasn’t done anything he said he would do for the life of the case.

Juxtapose January Mitchell with December Mitchell. December Mitchell, like his opposing counsel, is happy, care-free, and fun. Beers at 3:00 p.m. on a Tuesday? Sure! Want to duck out for a three-hour lunch “off campus”? Why not?! Then, as the clock strikes on New Years Eve, I am Cinderella, and all the magic is gone.

Unlike me, some lawyers (the psychopaths) enjoy the grind and can overlook the pain of resetting. The rest of us see it for what it is: an endless ride on the rat wheel of life as a lawyer. If you struggle with the reset yourself, I wish I could say that this column will provide you with a secret to overcoming the angst, but it won’t. No, at this point, I’m still wallowing. What I can tell you, however, is that instead of being proactive and getting a head start on this year’s billable hours or developing a plan of attack to wade through the mound of crap that’s piled up over the holidays, I usually choose the maladaptive path, which for me typically means a solemn retreat into the mindless world of reality television.

It’s no secret that I have a deep love and appreciation for trash television. This love, like most of my maladaptive behaviors, can be traced back to my childhood. In fact, I have specific memories of sitting in the living room with my parents and all four of my siblings, watching the king of trash: Jerry Springer.1 I was too young to understand some of the storylines (it doesn’t hurt that half of the dialogue was censored), but it never mattered. I wasn’t there for the story. I was there for the action. For example, I didn’t care why this lovely woman from Indiana was so upset when her boyfriend disclosed that he had eloped with a horse (that’s a real episode, by the way). I just wanted to see the smackdown that would inevitably ensue when one of the producers walked that horse onto the stage.

Even as a child, I knew that those stories weren’t real. Just like professional wrestling, I saw it for what it was: mindless, salacious back and forth between actors whose talents rival the lowest budget community theater in my hometown. While I’ll never “forget my raising,” my tastes in television have evolved through the years. [Although I’m still prone to watch Maury on days when I’m at home sick. You can lie to yourself all you want, but those paternity episodes are cinematic masterpieces.] Rather than the likes of Jenny Jones or Jerry Springer, I tend now toward the bourgeoisie: Bravo. In particular, I favor two of the Real Housewives franchises—Atlanta and Potomac— but we regularly watch the other slop Bravo doles out too, including several of the Housewives spinoffs. Yes, I have watched every episode of Kandi and the Gang. Am I proud of that? No, but we all do what we must to survive.

I really can’t explain what I get out watching these stupid shows. Having never run more than the length of a Golden Corral Buffet, I’m not exactly authoritative on the topic, but I understand that marathoners run 26.2 miles for the endorphins. Binging Real Housewives Ultimate Girls Trip generates the same autonomic response for me. There’s something comforting about turning on the TV and watching ridiculous people say ridiculous things. I don’t have to think, and while it’s playing, I’m briefly whisked away from the stress of starting over.

Are there any life lessons to be had from Real Housewives? No. All of the women (and men) on those shows are train wrecks. They spend money indiscriminately. They treat one another horribly, and they care for nothing and no one but themselves. Ironically, there are multiple seasons across the various Housewives franchises where all or mostly all of the cast are unmarried or in the throes of a bitter divorce.

I don’t watch these shows to help myself become a better person, and I have no expectation that I’ll “learn” anything when watching. It’s just a nice break from reality. So, as we embrace the new year, don’t be overwhelmed: get Peacock. And more specifically, start with The Real Housewives of Atlanta, Season 2. You won’t (mostly) regret it.

1 God help me if my mother figures out how to access this article. Her reaction would be akin to that of comedian Fortune Feimster’s mother, who refuses to acknowledge that when Fortune was a child, she hired one of Fortune’s babysitters while at a family dinner at Hooters. When confronted about their trips to Hooters in her childhood, Fortune’s mother said emphatically: “I . . . have NEVER . . . been . . . to Hooters!”