"What do you do?"
It's a fairly common query, usually meant as nothing more than a harmless icebreaker. It's a line I've used myself at countless fundraisers and other social gatherings. Moreover, up until very recently, it's a question I've always thought I'd fielded rather deftly. I mean, I'd spent my entire adult life, twenty years, building a career. Honing it. Protecting it. Growing it. Why wouldn't I enjoy talking about it?
Yet here I was, off-balance. Silent. Stumped. Why?
Things have changed for me recently. Should I explain to my questioner how my decade of service to my former employer had come to a screeching halt? Should I explain the sorry state of my industry, painting myself as an unfortunate victim of reorganization and downsizing? Should I explain the difference between being "bought out" of my contract versus being simply "fired?" Or were these just issues I was still struggling to reconcile in my own head?
Either way, the question lingered...unanswered...as my mind raced. "What do you do?"
Maybe it was my unfamiliar surroundings that had thrown me. This wasn't a black-tie gala full of people eager to mingle and network; this was an Upper West Side sidewalk on a chilly, fall afternoon outside my son's pre-school. Also, I noticed a difference in the inflection. Not so much, "What do you do?" but rather, "What do you do?" As in, "Why are you here?" I was the only man standing on the sidewalk surrounded by women, including my questioner.
I should explain that afternoon pre-school pick-up time is an entirely different animal than morning drop-off. In the morning, it's not uncommon to see men. They are usually wearing suits and checking their messages. Busy. On their way to work, but trying to squeeze in some quality time with their children. I recognize them. I once walked among them. But by the time afternoon pick-up rolls around these men are knee deep in whatever they do to pay the bills. Pick-up is the domain of moms and nannies...and now me.
So back to the question, what did I do? Why was I here? After such an awkward pause it was begging for a response. Begging.
Perhaps I was scared the short answer would induce pity from the female attempting to debrief me. Or even worse scorn. I wanted to ensure her that until very recently I had someplace else to be - a real job with a respectable salary. In fact, it wasn't long ago that
powerful people were willing to vie for my talents and I had the enviable position of holding out for the highest bidder. My current status was nothing more than a
temporary condition. She needed to know these things before I uttered the words I couldn't seem to force from my mouth.
But wait; did she really need to know? Was I really being judged? At this point I suspected she was just curious to see if I could actually speak. So I did it. I mustered up all the courage I could and I answered honestly.
"I'm a stay-at-home dad."
"Ok, it's out there," I thought. "Bring it on. I can take it. I don't care what you think anyway. That's right, I can handle it. I was in the Marines for goodness sake. Do your best evil, inquisitive woman."
Then it was over.
"Oh, that must be so nice for your son," she answered sincerely and smiled.