1. It’s too cold. No, too hot. No, too cold.

2. It’s too muggy, that’s the problem.

3. If it’s too muggy, then I cannot concentrate. What’s the contrapositive of that?

4. Where the *!& is the clock? Oh, there it is.

5. Um, why is the clock in the room not working? Oh, it is.

6. What am going to do with all the free time I’ll have after this? I should go to the beach.

7. The amount of construction going on outside cannot be normal.

8. Did I bring enough pencils because what if all seven break?

9. Who smells like Thai food?

10. I don’t even know how to feel about what just happened in that section.

11. I’m going to have the biggest margarita after this.

12. Stop thinking about margaritas.

13. I can already taste it.

14. It is disorienting how naked I feel without my cell phone.

15. Essay time! Almost done! Okay, focus. No, not sleep, FOCUS!

16. Where is my car? Wait, did I drive here?

Studying for the LSAT? Manhattan Prep offers a free practice LSAT exam, and free Manhattan LSAT preview classes running all the time near you, or online. Be sure to find us on Facebook and Google+, LinkedIn, and follow us on Twitter!

Years ago, I was at my mind-numbingly dull data entry job and taking my lunch break at my desk with the receptionist when I heard the strangest first date idea, ever.

“We went to Bikram yoga.”

I dropped my bag of pretzels—“lunch” on my salary. I had only just moved to New York but had lived there long enough to learn about Bikram. It was the really sweaty, hot yoga where people wore hardly any clothes, got bright red, and lost control of their bodily functions. I had even been to a class once, at the insistence of a friend. I hadn’t gone back, because I had been so thrilled to leave it alive, and because it cost twenty bucks per.

She went on a first date to Bikram?

“It was his idea. We both wanted to try it so we were like, sure, why not?”

Eventually, she tells me, she married him. She was talking about her husband.

That story came to mind recently and got me thinking. Why not integrate the LSAT into a first date in some creative way? If doing camel pose in 105 degrees can lead people to the altar, what else is possible?

Date Idea #1: Do a logic game together.

I know, I know. But talk about a moment of truth. Forget fake fake chatty chatty, “Oh I LOVE camping” (no, you don’t), “I would never treat a girl like that” (sure you wouldn’t)—you guys go for a full-on logic game showdown on your first date? That’s some authenticity, right there.

Also, how a person acts when he is outperformed can be very revealing.

Date Idea #2: Attend a free LSAT event.

There are so many reasons this makes a brilliant date that I don’t know where to start. Okay, I’ll settle on: afterward, you’ll be so happy to be out of there, you’ll both seem like the most charismatic people ever, post-event. You’re setting yourselves up to win with hardly any effort during drinks, afterward—all you have to do is be more interesting than four paragraphs about Canadian common law and a room of timid strangers.

Free LSAT event: the ultimate wingman.

Date Idea #3: Arrange to meet up after you take the LSAT.

Talk about lowered inhibitions.

You just finished the LSAT. AIN’T NOBODY BRINGING YOU DOWN!

Or, if on the contrary it didn’t go quite that well, what have you got to lose?

Either way, you are in a good state for a first date because seriously, the stakes are zero. This person may or may not be cool, but you’re just along for the ride, because you just took the LSAT. No matter what happens, you’re not going to sweat it. You have three weeks to kill.
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Happy Halloween everyone! We hope you’re not too wrapped up in the LSAT prep work to dress up and celebrate. We posted these awesome legal-themed costume ideas last year and we thought they were so great that we needed to do a repost this year–we’ve even added a few new ones. The best part is that most are very easy to create, and, well, since today is Halloween you don’t have too much time to waste!

1. Colonial Lawyer:  Take the traditional route and pop on a black robe and white collar and wig.
2. My Cousin Vinny: Plenty of options for this one. You could go with the all black ensemble (black pants, leather jacket, and silver belt and chain) or you could spice it up with a brown/orange suit, complete with a matching bowtie, white button-down, and heavy New York accent.
3. A Lawsuit: Wear a suit and attach legal documents all over it (Amendments of the Constitution, the UCC, Restatement of Torts) .
4. The Second Amendment: Wear a sleeveless shirt.
5. The Socratic Method: Get a white sheet from the linen closet and style a Greek toga. Sling a colored sash around your shoulder with the word “method” written across it.
6. “A Salt” with a Deadly Weapon– Dress in all white with a grey hat. Poke a few holes in the top of the hat to mimic a salt shaker. Carry around a toy gun/sword/knife or water gun of some sort. You can even get a pal to be a bloody pepper shaker.
7. Judge: A white, curly wig, pair of glasses, white turtleneck, and a black robe should do the trick. Add some pizzazz by adopting a New York accent and calling yourself Judy.
8. Elle Woods: Bring out anything and everything pink. Pink dress, skirt, shirt, heels, and hat. If you’re not a natural blonde, grab a wig, as this is a pretty essential part of the costume. Don’t forget to pick up a Chihuahua and dress him in a matching pink outfit.
9. The Lazy Lawyer: For those who want something more subtle or are just too lazy to put a complete costume together, throw on the shirt pictured above from Zazzle.com.
10. Yourself: If you don’t fancy the whole costume idea, just go as the studious LSAT student that you are. Accessorize with you’re pencils, stopwatch, and Manhattan LSAT Strategy guides.

Already have your costume picked out and ready to go? We’d love to hear what you’re going as! Leave a comment below or shoot us a tweet @manhattanLSAT.

Music can do a lot for us, but the word is still out on whether it can enhance our ability to stay focused and sharpen our memories during long study sessions. On the one hand, we have a report from the University of Toronto suggesting that fast and loud background music can hinder our performance on reading comprehension. On the other, there’s the recent research from the digital music service, Spotify, and Clinical Psychologist Dr. Emma Gray, which proclaims that pop hits from artists like Justin Timberlake, Katy Perry, and Miley Cyrus can actually enhance our cognitive abilities.

“Music has a positive effect on the mind, and listening to the right type of music can actually improve studying and learning,” says Dr. Gray. She even suggests that students who listen to music while studying can perform better than those who do not.

We also cannot leave out the so-called “Mozart Effect,” which alleges that listening to classical music provides short-term enhancement of mental tasks, like memorization. We’ve heard students swear by this tactic, while others say that silence is golden.
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The LSAT can lead to a lucrative career in law, or a Supreme Court clerkship. Some lawyers fight for the rights of Guantanamo Bay detainees; others practice space law.

In my case, it led to Brooklyn small claims court. A year after leaving Yale Law School and passing the New York Bar, I found myself in downtown Brooklyn with a pile of tabbed evidence (exhibits A-H) in my lap, seething at the petite woman in pink flats seated across from me, the owner of my local UPS store just north of Prospect Park, as she crossed her arms and yelled, “YOU SHOULD HAVE BOUGHT INSURANCE!”

She was right. I should have, and I didn’t. But I had just sued her on behalf of myself.

It began, the way too many things do, with an overpriced pair of shoes. They were worse than overpriced; they were exorbitantly expensive, the most expensive pair of … the most expensive anything fashion-related I’d ever purchased by eight hundred percent. (For you fellow math-challenged, that means if the most I’d ever spent on a pair of shoes had been twenty dollars, they’d be $160 … and that’s not it.)

Thing is, I was working at a “big law firm” when I bought them and, in my abject misery, constantly seeking out means of instant gratification and temporary solace: McDonalds french fries for lunch (large, naturally); a fourth cup of coffee; that dress in the window I don’t even like that much but maybe it’ll look almost good with a belt.

During my lunch break, which wasn’t so much a “break” as fifteen minutes I could sneak away as a bottom-level associate, I walked over to Madison Avenue and bought the $hoes to feel better. And I did for about ten minutes.

When I quit my law job two months later to write (and actually began to feel better), I could not only no longer afford such extravagances, I could no longer afford to live with the previous ones, including the $hoes (although I had never actually been able to bring myself to wear them, anyway). I cashed out part of my IRA, moved to Brooklyn and put the the $hoes on eBay, where they sold quickly. I dropped them off at my local UPS store and, a week later, received an email in all caps from Yvonne, the buyer, in San Diego: WHERE R SHOES EVENT IS 2NITE!!!!!

A dozen calls and emails to the UPS branch, and I still didn’t have any answers. I googled the branch and found similar complaints of “lost,” high-value items that were never recovered. I filed a complaint with the Better Business Bureau (where the store, for the record, had an F rating). The store responded in a terse letter that it was my fault for not buying additional insurance. It didn’t mention anything about where the shoes might be now.

When I called the national UPS customer service line, the CS representative I spoke to told me she couldn’t help.

“You’ll need to take it up with your local branch,” she said.

I was done: done with working things the soft way, and done with saying “branch.” Full of rage and self-righteousness, and $300 poorer after eBay made me pay back Yvonne, I googled “Brooklyn small claims” and found my way to Turbocourt, the judicial twin of Turbotax, which, as you can infer, files your lawsuits for a fee. Instantly, I got my trial date: September 18th, 2012.

I had to teach a class that night.

I called the court.

“I have to work the night of my hearing,” I told the clerk, “so could we move up the date?” She told me that I’d have to send a letter to the judge, who would open it on my court date, in my absence, and decide whether or not to give me an extension. Best case scenario, the new date would be several months later.

No. This was a matter of justice, and as I’d heard too many times in law school, “Justice delayed is justice denied.” I would find a substitute teacher, and on September 18th, I would be there, guns blazing.

Over the next four months, I spent around twenty hours preparing for my hearing, at which I assumed UPS would not show. I hoped to get a winning judgment by default (which can happen when a defendant just doesn’t show up). I rehearsed my arguments, printed and sorted evidence at Kinkos while the clock charged my Visa, and invited a friend along for moral support, who brought her microphone to record (how could we not document such an exciting event?). By the time I arrived at small claims, I had spent or foregone (having gotten a sub for my class) well over the original value of the shoes–not even the resale price. Theoriginal price.

Small claims court is the little league of court. Few people have lawyers. You can only sue for $5,000 or less.

After an hour in a tense and crowded room, my case is finally called–case 87 of the 95 on the calendar that night.

“Mary Adkins!”

“Here.”

“UPS!”

“Here,” a voice chimes from the back. I turn to spot a small, angry-looking woman in a hot pink shirt and dark, creased jeans standing in the corner, staring right back at me.

Our case is sent to room 509, several flights up, and we end up in the same elevator. After nearly half a year of cultivating anger at UPS, the abstract merchant who won’t return my calls, it’s strange now to face this woman who (a) actually came, and (b) doesn’t look evil or abstract, at all. She just looks annoyed.

When we arrive on the fifth floor, I introduce myself. Her name is Camille. She’s owned the store with her brother for seven years.

Ultimately, we end up in front of an arbitrator. We each tell our version of the story. Hers is defensive, and I find myself believing it: she wasn’t there the day I shipped the shoes, and she trusts her employees. When the arbitrator raises her eyebrows in a way that signals, to both of us I think, that the store is nonetheless responsible for the shoes, Camille caves. She offers to pay me $316–the sale price, plus what I’d paid for shipping. I accept her offer because it feels like this is where this ends, and because it seems, now that I’ve heard her version, fair or at least fair-ish … never mind that what I’m agreeing to is less than what I have spent or forfeited just working on the case, alone.

As the arbitrator drafts the agreement, Camille and I chat. She is talkative about the challenges of running a small shipping franchise. People are always claiming that expensive items have been lost when she has no way of verifying whether or not what they’re saying is true. She’s sick of it, and this case has been the tipping point.

Because of me, she tells me–not kindly–she’s had to institute a new policy to track packages from the moment they are dropped off through each stage of handling. Her employees, and the employees of the companies she works with, are irritated by the new policy; they have to record and tick off every phase of transfer, and it substantially slows down the process. But she doesn’t care. The policy’s purpose is to spare her from having to spend evenings like this and cutting checks to people like me.

As we shake hands and part ways, I realize something. If Camille had just paid up but walked away without having said anything more, I’m pretty sure I would have wound up with the same empty feeling I’d had after the fleeting pleasure of buying the shoes had passed: the understanding that nothing was different. The delight at having “won” or prevailed eventually would have left me in the same place I was before the whole thing ever took place; instant gratification dissipates rapidly into The Default, As Usual.

But that isn’t what happened. Because something lasting came out of this–a policy change–I left small claims feeling better than I did coming in, and that feeling has endured; it’s with me months later.

Small claims is no space law. But my local UPS is a more reliable institution now. Begrudgingly, and via collective hostility, it operates in what I believe is a superior way. And that feels good.

In my case, the LSAT didn’t lead to a headline-worthy legal career. But it did lead to one headline that makes me a little proud, small as that may be.