Just a Job

Maybe it's because I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up, but I really dislike being labeled by my job. I've held some very different positions, but I've never been comfortable saying "I am a [fill-in-the-blank]." I'm much more comfortable with phrasing such as "I work at . . ." instead of boxing myself in.

Not that people make it easy to distance myself from labels. Often the first questioned people ask after we're introduced is, "What do you do for a living?" To me, that is a personal question, akin to asking how much money I have or how much I weigh. A job or profession should be a topic that arises only after extensive conversation, not as an immediate label of status.

Having to wear a uniform to my current workplace doesn't help. People stop me in parking lots to comment on my outfit, or feel the need to grill me on my job simply because I'm in work clothes. Yes, I'm wearing scrubs, but that doesn't mean I want to discuss my employment with total strangers. Worse, some of my scrubs are embroidered with the name of the vet clinic that provides my paycheck. "Oh, you work in a vet hospital? How cute! That must be SO interesting." It makes me want to respond, "I see you're wearing an ugly shirt. You must be an accountant."

Maybe I'm too private, but I appreciate cultures in which jobs don't define a person. I think it's refreshing to have numerous meetings with people and realize later that I have no idea what kind of work they do. Perhaps I just feel this way because I have no job-related status in this society. Maybe I would love to brag about my career if I were a best-selling novelist or successful stockbroker. I could then show off my importance with a Lexus SUV, designer clothes and a McMansion in a lovely suburb.

See, I can be judgmental, too.

Handbags, Gladrags and Indiana Jones

Paul Tropische recently posted a psychotic comment on my "Fork" entry. While the tone and content of his posting were utterly insane, I appreciated the time it must have taken Paul (if that is his real name) to write such a thorough response to my restaurant issue. I've decided, therefore, to respond in turn to each of his odd little points.

First of all, the Trop suggested hauling around some silverware in a handbag for cutlery emergencies. Besides the obvious problem of keeping forks clean in a purse full of other junk and the bigger issue that any passerby or restaurant worker would assume you were stealing the restaurant's silverware and cause an uncomfortable commotion, the main drawback is that I hate carrying a handbag. A purse--a cumbersome, girly accessory and stupid waste of money--would be utterly unnecessary if designers made women's clothes more practical and comfortable. I could easily fit a fork or two along with a wallet and keys in the pocket of men's clothes, but many articles of women's clothes don't have even a single pocket. I've seen some clothing in which the pockets are purely decorative! This complete nonsense makes me even angrier than not getting a second fork, so it can hardly be a solution to my problem.

Second, Paulo mentioned using forks as weapons. Now this is a great idea. I'm always looking for new ways to attack people who irritate me. I mean, they'd never expect that innocent looking utensil to come charging at them, would they? Indiana Jones is my hero. You'd never see Indiana Jones carrying a purse.

Incidentally, whatever happened to Lao Che? In the "Temple of Doom" movie, he organizes the almost certain death of the good guys by arranging for their plane to crash, but through quick thinking and a remarkably well-made inflatable dinghy, they survive to reach India, eat eyeball soup (grossest idea ever), escape ritual sacrifice to a catchy chant, and race around in a runaway mine car. Of course, Indy saves the day (yes, it may seem condescending for an outsider to solve the mystery, but Harrison Ford can pull it off without seeming like a pompous American), but where is his thirst for revenge? I imagine that James Bond would have been on the next flight to China to take out Lao Che and his little empire. Dr. Jones is either too forgiving, too forgetful or too chicken to return to Shanghai. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and call him forgiving. I guess every hero has a tragic flaw.

In his comments, the tropical mischief-maker then tried to bring politics into the issue. While I refuse to blog about politics (triple the anger of fork problems and wretched hand-gags), I will say that my darling significant other agreed that we'd never live in a red state unless it came with the benefit of a spectacular, mountainous natural environment (Alaska or western Montana). So that can't be a factor.

Thanks, PT. You've been very helpful. You'd better hope I'm fork-less if we ever meet.