What Do You Do? by Courtney Colwell

     Being unemployed, I’m really starting to hate what used to be such a normal enough question that even a wannabe nonconformist like myself would ask: “So, what do you do?”

     I call myself a wannabe nonconformist because I’d like to think of myself as being different, if not radical. However, deep down I know I’m a flaming conformist. Just catch me trying to get dressed for an event that remotely smacks of semi-social prominence, and I’m freakishly obsessed with what’s in, what’s appropriate, what’s young and hip and yet maintains a stylish conservatism. Much research and many phone calls will ensue. Tears may be shed. It’s a nightmare.

     My new obsession, however, is how to answer this simple question, “What do you do?” I have already contacted friends from twelve states on whether or not to put an end date on my term of employment for the company that I was laid off from. Or do I just leave it as “to present,” and pretend like I still work there five months later? My friends tell me it’s better to seem like a working professional than like someone who might have been fired, but I’m wondering if perhaps there is some wellspring of sympathy for the unemployed that I might be able to tap into.

     The same concern arises when people ask me what I do. Do I confess my unemployed state and hope that maybe this person might be hiring? Maybe this person is the former fraternity brother of Gerald Levin and can get me an interview at Time Warner. It is much more likely, though, that this person has neither the connections nor the interest in helping me, and my confession will only result in my becoming that function’s social pariah, avoided by employed people who think I have nothing to contribute to a conversation beyond what happened on Jerry Springer.

     But they are so wrong. They have no idea the wealth of information I obtain from daytime television. I get my current events from CNN, MSNBC, and FoxNews, each one offering me a slightly different perspective on the same stories. I now swing both ways, liberal and conservative. I am up to date on music and pop culture thanks to MTV, just in case anyone wants to know what’s cool with the kids these days, or where they can best find pirated music in digital form. And I have become quite familiar with the intricacies of criminal law, as doled out by either Jack McCoy or Ben Stone, the Executive Assistant District Attorneys of New York, depending on which episode of Law & Order I catch. I love that show. I also love that it’s always on, and if I just keep surfing, I’ll find it on some channel.

     Sometimes, when someone asks me what I do, I pretend that I’m Abby Carmicheal, the Assistant District Attorney who worked for Jack last season. She’s my favorite: hardheaded, tough, and gorgeous. Yes, I prosecute criminals. Just last week, I was working on this case with the Russian mob...

     That’s actually not so bad. At least on those occasions, I sound like someone who might be an ADA. I have lines to work with. I have attitude to imitate. It’s on other occasions that I just pull stuff from my ass that it sounds like I’m pulling stuff from my ass. But people are often just too polite to call me on it.

     “What do you do?”

     “I’m the Finnish Ambassador.”

     “Really? And how do you know the host?”

     “Oh, I don’t. I usually don’t have the time or interest in socializing like...”

And then I whisper, so as not to offend the host, “...like this, you know. However, a friend of mine from over at the consulate knows someone at the UN who is friends with the host and just insisted we stop by.” And with a “what can you do?” shrug of the shoulders, I wander off, most likely back to the bar.

     Someone else can else me the same question at the same party, and I’ll answer, “I’m a yoga instructor.”

     Some times these answers can be problematic, though.

     “Oh, I love yoga. What studio do you teach at?”

     “I do private lessons only. I go to my clients’ homes.”

     “Oh, that’s fantastic. Do you do groups?”

     “Maybe.”

For the right price, I might. I’m sure after watching a few tapes, I could teach a yoga class.

     “Do you have a card?”

     “You know, I’m all out. How about you give me yours, and I’ll call you?”

     Business cards are an issue. It’s so common to exchange them that not having one is like losing a primary means of communication. On the rare occasion that a guy asks for my card, I tell him I don’t give out my number. But he can give me his card. I’ve learned that this is perceived as my being a smart woman, which seems much better than my being a jobless loser and potential gold digger.

     Another problem has been keeping my stories straight. I went out with a guy once and started talking honestly about trying to get another media job, and he looked at me strangely.

     “Last night when I met you, you said you were a ballet dancer,” he frowned.

     Now I know I had been drinking when I said that, but he was clearly at fault for taking that one seriously. Did he not once check out the size of my ass? This ass does not belong in a leotard.

     Another approach that hasn’t worked out so well for me is trying to make the job sound so boring, that no one will want to talk about it.

     “I’m a microbiologist.”

     I have found that this answer can be very detrimental to dating, on par with “I’m a proctologist.”

     So far, the best approach I’ve found seems to be the clichéd one, the honest answer.

     A friend of mine has taken to telling people he’s an “entrepreneur, trying to get some money for a start-up.” That start-up being his own career. Another friend tells people she’s “self-employed.”

     I prefer my honesty served with a little more creativity.

     “So what do you do?”

     “I’m developing my career in market research.”

     “As an analyst?”

     “No, participant.”

     It’s true. I do try to sign up for every focus group I read about. I can make anywhere between $50 and $200 for an hour of talking. Unfortunately, I haven’t been selected yet. There’s always some trick question.

     “This is a research study focused on people who wear contacts. Do you wear contacts?”

     “Yes.”

     “Have you ever had an eye infection?”

     “Yes.”

     “Sorry, no eye infections allowed.”

     “Oh, did you say eye? I thought you said thigh.”

     “Sorry.”

     However, from now on, I plan to call in under an assumed name to gauge the correct answers, and then call back with my real name. I don’t care if the study asks for grandmothers who are addicted to painkillers, drive Chevy trucks, and love their cats, I’m signing up.

     Of course, the trickiest question they always ask is the second one on their list, which is: “What do you do?”