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Consider this a warning!

The writers of Sex and the City had better stop stalking me and my friends this instant! It was I that was in jury duty. It was I that had too much time to think about my relationship. Two weeks ago it was Greg who just wasn’t into Sam. It was I who declared her hatred for carnations. It was I role-playing the unsuspecting wife with rollers in her hair before getting…er, anyway, where was I?

After several days of voire dire, I wasn’t picked as a juror on what seemed to be a potentially dull criminal case. I didn’t mind the whole process of waiting, reading till my eyes bled, talking on the phone, sleeping in and getting home early enough to enjoy the afternoon sun. What is everyone else complaining about? The life of a potential juror was the most stress-free time I’ve had since my last trip to the Cuervo Nation.

When my duty came to an end, I felt bittersweet sadness. They didn’t want me. I wasn’t good enough. Which one dismissed me? The plaintiff? The defendant? All that time I faithfully devoted and for what? To be sent home with a letter?!The officer stressed the importance of making a copy of the letter for my file as proof of service to relieve me from serving again for the next four years. One quick flash of a Xerox to get me off the hook of any civic responsibility. If only life were that easy.

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