I hate meeting new people. Most of you know this about me. When put into social settings, you can usually find me in the corner next to the beer with my arms folded over my chest, and what many strangers have called "a grumpy looking face.” I seriously have yet to go to a bar without someone coming over to me and asking “what’s it going to take to get you to smile?” or the slightly less flattering “what the hell is your problem?”
Why the awkwardness? I’m not very good at making small talk. When meeting new people in college, it was always “so…what’s your major?” I enjoyed talking about my major as much as I enjoyed listening to people talk about theirs. I looked forward to graduation when I could put this behind me, but found that this question was only replaced with “so…what do you do?”
“What do you do?” What kind of bullshit question is that anyway? I do a lot of shit. I laugh at hobos. I eat breath mints I find on the floor. I snack on bacon bits as if they were potatoes chips. I watch Forensic Files reruns every night at 11. As for what I do for a living…well, that’s a little more complicated, and I don’t see why I should have to explain every time I meet somebody new.
When people ask you “so what do you do?” they’re looking for a one to two word summation, tops. They don’t really care about what you do, it’s just a formality. It’s the same as asking someone how they’re doing. You don’t want their life story. You want “fine” or maybe even an “alright?” That’s it. Anything more is unwelcomed. Same goes when you ask someone what they do. You want a quick answer, like “fireman,” or “ventriloquist,” or “child pornographer.”
When I first started working at my new job, I didn’t know how to sum up what I did into a concise answer. Time and time again, I would watch as people eyes glazed over in the middle of my explanation. “Well, it’s complicated” I would warn. “Change the subject now” was what I was really trying to say. I would begin my rant as if reading from a script…”I work at an agency that represents hair and makeup artists, set designers, and wardrobe stylists….” I hated myself for saying it, but frankly, they asked for it. I had to give a long, drawn out speech. I didn’t know what else to say! What was I suppose to tell them? - “I don’t want to talk about it." They had backed me into a corner, and force me to be that guy that no one likes – the guy who talks about his job as if others might care. It disgusted me, and I could tell it disgusted others just listening to it. Most of the time, people would either start talking to someone else as soon as I had finished, or they would completely misunderstand what I said. “So, you’re a makeup artist?”
I told my aunt Shelia about my problem, and she told me she always felt the same way. “I tell people I’m a professional juggler,” she told me. “When I first met your uncle, I knew he was the man for me when he asked ‘Have you ever tired using live chickens in your act?’”
So following my aunt Shelia’s lead, I reinvented myself with every conversation. Sometimes I was a subway driver. Sometimes I was a pet store owner. But mostly, the best I could come up with was “Uh….juggler….” I had to stop though. The guilt was becoming too much, not only for stealing my aunts line, but for butchering as badly as I did. My delivery, most often jumbled by alcohol, came out mangled and deformed…something like “Juggler…chickens…alive….use….me?”
So, after struggling with lying, I decided honesty was the best policy. People asked me what I did, I was straight up about it. “I answer the phones, clean out the fridge, and make copies of really tiny receipts taped to big pieces of paper.” The reaction I got was amazing. “ME TOO!” they would shout. A small congregation of no-bodies would form around me. “Don’t you hate it when papers get clogged into the copier?” They would ask. “What’s the deal with powdered toner?”
Some time, well after I had come to terms with my inability to sum up my occupation into an acceptable three word answer, I was asked to post a job listing for an intern. I asked the girl next to me “What do you think a good title for the ad should be?” She responded “How ‘bout ‘Artist Management Agency seeks intern’”
And there it was. Artist Management Agency. Perhaps I could converse like a normal person after all. Although it's doubtful. I’ve found that conversations about anything other than ink cartridges and recycled paper bore me.
Why the awkwardness? I’m not very good at making small talk. When meeting new people in college, it was always “so…what’s your major?” I enjoyed talking about my major as much as I enjoyed listening to people talk about theirs. I looked forward to graduation when I could put this behind me, but found that this question was only replaced with “so…what do you do?”
“What do you do?” What kind of bullshit question is that anyway? I do a lot of shit. I laugh at hobos. I eat breath mints I find on the floor. I snack on bacon bits as if they were potatoes chips. I watch Forensic Files reruns every night at 11. As for what I do for a living…well, that’s a little more complicated, and I don’t see why I should have to explain every time I meet somebody new.
When people ask you “so what do you do?” they’re looking for a one to two word summation, tops. They don’t really care about what you do, it’s just a formality. It’s the same as asking someone how they’re doing. You don’t want their life story. You want “fine” or maybe even an “alright?” That’s it. Anything more is unwelcomed. Same goes when you ask someone what they do. You want a quick answer, like “fireman,” or “ventriloquist,” or “child pornographer.”
When I first started working at my new job, I didn’t know how to sum up what I did into a concise answer. Time and time again, I would watch as people eyes glazed over in the middle of my explanation. “Well, it’s complicated” I would warn. “Change the subject now” was what I was really trying to say. I would begin my rant as if reading from a script…”I work at an agency that represents hair and makeup artists, set designers, and wardrobe stylists….” I hated myself for saying it, but frankly, they asked for it. I had to give a long, drawn out speech. I didn’t know what else to say! What was I suppose to tell them? - “I don’t want to talk about it." They had backed me into a corner, and force me to be that guy that no one likes – the guy who talks about his job as if others might care. It disgusted me, and I could tell it disgusted others just listening to it. Most of the time, people would either start talking to someone else as soon as I had finished, or they would completely misunderstand what I said. “So, you’re a makeup artist?”
I told my aunt Shelia about my problem, and she told me she always felt the same way. “I tell people I’m a professional juggler,” she told me. “When I first met your uncle, I knew he was the man for me when he asked ‘Have you ever tired using live chickens in your act?’”
So following my aunt Shelia’s lead, I reinvented myself with every conversation. Sometimes I was a subway driver. Sometimes I was a pet store owner. But mostly, the best I could come up with was “Uh….juggler….” I had to stop though. The guilt was becoming too much, not only for stealing my aunts line, but for butchering as badly as I did. My delivery, most often jumbled by alcohol, came out mangled and deformed…something like “Juggler…chickens…alive….use….me?”
So, after struggling with lying, I decided honesty was the best policy. People asked me what I did, I was straight up about it. “I answer the phones, clean out the fridge, and make copies of really tiny receipts taped to big pieces of paper.” The reaction I got was amazing. “ME TOO!” they would shout. A small congregation of no-bodies would form around me. “Don’t you hate it when papers get clogged into the copier?” They would ask. “What’s the deal with powdered toner?”
Some time, well after I had come to terms with my inability to sum up my occupation into an acceptable three word answer, I was asked to post a job listing for an intern. I asked the girl next to me “What do you think a good title for the ad should be?” She responded “How ‘bout ‘Artist Management Agency seeks intern’”
And there it was. Artist Management Agency. Perhaps I could converse like a normal person after all. Although it's doubtful. I’ve found that conversations about anything other than ink cartridges and recycled paper bore me.
