It wouldn’t happen if I didn’t talk so much, that first conversation.

Life would be easier if I didn’t talk so much. Living with myself is easy: I am a loyal and patriotic subscriber to the laws, bylaws, and regulations of Calico. Other people? Not so much.

But sometimes I feel that not talking is a suppression of joy, when all I want to mention that I have cute coworkers or cute new shoes or an amusing elevator anecdote. And then, the question: “What do you do?”

I despise that question. I can feel that question coming from minutes away. No other dread is as reliable, except perhaps the horror where a guest drops by unexpectedly and you realize you haven’t cleaned the toilet in three weeks.

I am lucky about my social circle, so half the time I get an approving “Oh, okay.” But the other half reacts like I’ve said I sniff armpits for a deodorant testing company.

“So, what is it like?”

“What kind of men do you see? Are they old, fat and gross?”

“Are they [insert religion of choice]?”

“So what else do you do?”

“Do you really hate men?”

“Are you a lesbian?”

“How long do you think you’ll do it before you get a real job?”

“You’re in school, though, right?”

Every time I have this conversation I walk away feeling lousy. I feel that I have sensationalized here, and omitted there, and been glib in four other places; that I’ve been too stupid or too earnest to communicate a point; that I was crude, or perhaps so cagey as to be rude; that I have, in short, failed.

Every time I have it, it goes better. Not well, but better.

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