Identity Much?

It occurred to me today, just how much "what we do" for a living defines us.  It's not like I am completely ignorant to this, but I certainly haven't spent too much time pontificating the matter.  Until today.  Last night Jeff and I attended the "Good Neighbour Awards" held by the City of Edmonton because the neighbour we nominated actually won.  It was an interesting affair held at the Santa Maria Goretti Centre.  Of course, it required meeting several new people, which I generally love, except when the conversation begins like this:  "So Stephanie, what do you do?"

Gulp.  Good question.

I usually try to invent snappy responses in my mind beforehand that I fantasize about trying on strangers that will stun them into silence:

"I'm a forensic accountant."

"I'm a mortician's assistant."

"I'm an escort.  He's my client" (motion to husband).

"I'm a demi-god; my father is Zeus."

And so on.  And I do this because it is nearly impossible to define what it is I do, in one snappy sentence.  You may ask yourself, why care so much?  Don't worry, I've pondered that, too.  It turns out that knowledge of what someone does is a touching point for everyone in order to feel like they are learning something significant about the other person, which in actuality, is a lot of bolshevik.

Yet it bothers me.  It has become a bit of a burden, actually.  I agonize over whether I am truly contributing simply because I have no dineros to substantiate my activities.  When this happens, I am reduced to keeping a running tally of my accomplishments during the day, which is quite pathetic, especially when one of these accomplishments is simply walking the dog.

But I also recognize my responsibility in this tortured, internal monologue.  Please self, make it stop!

On a similar thread, my friend Lea wrote a very interesting analysis of "Mother's Day."  You can find it here.   Dear, Sweet Women:  sometimes we are our own worst misogynists!