My indoctrination into the stratums of Manhattan trendster elitism is officially complete, I have now leapt from the precipice of the great unwashed masses into the sparkling transluscent martini-filled pool of New York haut monde, all by completing one unceremonious act – officially attending a party at Soho House. Neither a bar, nor a club, nor a house really, this members-only 7-story bullpen of glitterati delights embodies the Star Bellied Sneech attitude perfected by New York venues – that elaborate air of “You the common folk desperately want access to our mysterious lair housing only the affluent and immaculately dressed, and we both know you haven’t a chance in hell of getting in, but should you sneak beneath our commoner-detecting radar into this chic hipster wonderland, be aware that your fleeting presence brings us, the unquestionably fabulous, nothing but extreme amusement.” The thing is, despite my irritation with the appropriately appealing check-in girls in the front lobby staring you down with expressions saying, “I’ll greet you in polite dulcet tones with my high-pitched nonthreatening voice and winsome little hair tosses, but if your name isn’t etched into this stone tablet guest list, I will immediately signal Rocco over there to acquaint your forehead with the cobble-stoned streets outside,” and the Eurochic urban-mafia-meets-heir-to-a-mining-fortune crowd, I found myself genuinely enjoying the place. It’s hard to find fault with any locale that, from the second you enter a room, instantly supplies both hands with unlimited champagne and little ice cream cups filled with teryaki beef strips. I’d happily play 10 rounds of Russian roulette in a Vietnamese prison camp as long as they were passing those two items out in vast quantities.

But far more important than the swanky locale was the party itself, the first “End of Chemo” celebration I’ve ever attended. A non-lawyer friend (I do have a few of them stashed away) in her early thirties, beautiful, vivacious and blessed with the ability to be fully aware of the world without bitterness (a skill I have yet to master) was diagnosed with breast cancer and underwent a full brutal session of chemotherapy. Lets imagine that: you’re young and living a marvelous life, carving out a niche in your career, meeting friends for drinks on Tuesday nights (the new Thursday, as I was recently informed) and chatting about the miserable date you had last weekend and how you’re never logging onto Match.com again, then come doctor visits and test results, and suddenly your life as you know it has been ripped to shreds, all the trivialities slip into oblivion, and you realize that ahead of you lies a pitched battle with stakes higher than any partner race or deal closing. She survived the months of hell, remission was eventually confirmed, so she did what any remarkable individual who just kicked a highly fatal disease in the nuts would do – threw a kickass party for all her friends to celebrate. Once you’ve survived cancer, I’d say at the very least you deserve an open bar at Soho House.

In between inhaling booze and beef strips, I sat there marveling at this woman who worked the sumptuous room like she was hosting a posh cocktail mixer – smile never wavering, wig perfectly in place, designer dress splendidly revealing her still-intact cleavage. She sipped champagne with her dashing British boyfriend and gracefully introduced us all to her surgeon, a guest of honor. It struck me that law firm indoctrinates love to speak about the importance of “grace under pressure” at X & Y firm, and how a “successful X & Y lawyer” can be cool and calm in any situation. There’s a laugh, it’s general knowledge that at least four people will enter a state of total Thunderdome chaos the day a motion is due or closing is scheduled. Partners may scream obscenities over a misplaced comma or .5 inch margin misalignment on a page, while associates shut their doors for brief crying spells throughout the day (we’ve pretty much all done it at least once). We lawyers stride through the office with the attitude that the outcome of every litigation or deal will undeniably dictate the fate of the known universe, and then dissolve into flailing blubbering cretins at the first sign of stress, while this woman endured months of searing radiation through her body, all with the knowledge that the constant pain, nausea, hair and energy loss, and agony for her family may not necessarily lead to remission in the end. But here she stood, smiling and laughing with friends, encouraging everyone to have regular breast exams. What the hell do any of these lawyers know about grace under pressure and success in the face of adversity.

In a quick chatting interlude, I asked our hostess if she missed working. “Oh no, I don’t miss it – I never really stopped,” she said without missing a step. I was floored – she hadn’t quit her job? How is this possible? I can personally guarantee that, if I realized that my life could very possibly be cut short by illness, I would leap from my desk, grab my stapler, demand my paycheck and dash out of the midtown highrise at warp speed. “Actually,” she continued, “I didn’t want to give up my work, it’s an important part of my life.” Find me a law firm associate who would echo that sentiment, I challenge you.