Every morning I wake up and see this poster next to my bed. Most mornings I smile at it.

Even though it took three weeks to get here, I just love this print (by Hilda Grahnat but I can’t find it now, maybe it sold out?).

Anyway, the direct translation is like ‘What is it that you do in life?’ but from my hugely non-extensive knowledge of French I believe the context is something more like ‘So, what do you do?’ in the same way that you would be asked at a party.

So, what do I do?

I’m an environmental advisor at a large and elderly industrial facility in the Fort Saskatchewan area. I sample soil, hazardous waste, naturally occurring radioactive material, wastewater, groundwater, and questionable material from spill sites. I review environmental policy and regulations that come down the pipe and apply them to our site procedures so we don’t get sued or fined. I gather data, squish them through statistical analysis, and write reports for the regulator. I interpret laboratory results, on occasion do the analysis myself, provide support and advice on projects – mostly building or demolition – and liaise with the government and emergency response team when we have incidents. I shout at engineers. I probe, investigate, analyze, and conclude. Every so often I get both boots stuck in bright-pink mud (or worse yet, between two railroad tracks), get sprayed with liquid that smells like a burning chemical factory, or fall up to my armpits in snow. When someone says “Is that thing supposed to sound like that?” I drop flat and cover my head.

That’s what I do.

But is the question – at the party or on my wall – really ‘What’s your job?’ or is it ‘Who are you?’

It’s assumed that everybody defines themselves by how they put cupcakes on the table. For instance, if you met Michael H. Kelly at a party and said “So, what do you do?” he’d reply, “I’m a writer.”*

“I am.” Not, “I write.”

I am…a job.

Isn’t that strange.

What about people who don’t have jobs? What about housewives, hermits, retirees, the unemployed, the incapacitated, the comatose, and people who are locked away for talking to doorknobs? (“So, what do you do then?” “Oh, I’m a madman.”)

Do they say, “I don’t have a job, but I’m a fully-rounded human being, I have two kids and a canoe, I’m compassionate, curious, intelligent, and an active participant in many recreational activities such as softball and chess”? They don’t, because that’s not really how society wants you to answer questions like that. Because who you are doesn’t mean as much as what you do.

What’s interesting to me is people like Case (from Neuromancer, natch) who actively and persistently define themselves by what they do for a living. They wouldn’t have any other way to see themselves except by being good enough at something to have people pay them to do it. If you take that away they plunge into depression. Or wacky adventures involving sentient A.I.’s or what have you.

Have you ever seen those commercials, what’s it for, some financial planning service or something, where the middle-aged dude turns to the screen and says with a wistful smile, “When I grow up, I want to work with children.” And then there’s some dame who goes “I want to open my own restaurant.” Because they presume, right, that you’re just doing your job till you don’t have to do your job any more, and then you can go out and do… your passion.

People like that confuse me. Not everybody has a passion. Not everybody! I don’t, for instance. This came up a lot while I was unemployed in 2008.

Some Bloody Career Counselor Assigned to Me By Former Company: So we already know you’ll be able to find a job in the environmental field, but that’s not what I’m here for!
Me: Oh.
SBCC: So what’s your passion?
Me: I don’t have one.
SBCC: Everybody has one. What are you good at? That’s a good place to start.
Me: Irritating people till they put a hit out on me.
SBCC: Ha ha ha! I mean, what’s your dream job?
Me: I don’t have a dream job.
SBCC: Now look. Really reach down deep, and tell me what you find. Some examples I’ve seen just in the past week were writing their father’s biography; working with orphans in Ethiopia; growing organic produce to feed inner-city children; and re-homing abused horses.
Me: …Good…for them?
SBCC: A lot of people have the wrong idea, they’re working to pay the bills instead of doing what they’re really passionate about. How can you spend your life doing something that leaves you saying ‘Meh’?
Me: Your job seems pretty ‘meh’ to me.
SBCC: Now if you already had your bills paid and you could do anything you want, what would you be doing?
Me: … Sitting on my futon in smiley-face underpants watching ‘Singing in the Rain’ and eating a pudding cup.
SBCC: What kind of pudding?
Me: Butterscotch. What are you writing down there?
SBCC: Nothing.

Yeah, I know. This will come as a shock to no one, but I really don’t have any dreams or passions or overriding beliefs or powerful desires. What would I be doing if I wasn’t doing this? What do I really, really, really want to do?

As far as I can tell: sweet buggerall.

I mean I don’t really like inner-city children. Or orphans, for that matter. I’d say ‘writing’ but I don’t have the talent or the attention span and you kind of need both. I’d also say ‘reading,’ but who pays people to read? In the old days you could say ‘philosopher,’ and that meant you just sat around thinking all day, but I’m rubbish at that. Most days I can’t string together a coherent whatchamacallit. I want to be an astronaut but I can’t see without corrective lenses or do math, and how can that be good for huge pieces of multi-billion dollar equipment? Burlesque is out, I’m usually not coordinated enough to stand, let alone be trusted to not dance right off the edge of a stage. Marine biologist is out – I can’t use the breathing equipment because of my dodgy lung, plus also, there are too many things in the ocean that want to eat me. Being a research scientist was a nightmare. Being a housewife would be hell. Volunteering is for people who actually give a damn. I don’t want to help people, or change the world, or be a ‘global citizen,’ and I’m not really good enough at anything for people to give me money for it. I’ve realized that the job I’m currently doing is kind of a fluke, in that anyone from my grad class could do it, and I just happened to be in the right place at the right time with the right degree.

Anyway, this didn’t really have a point. I just got to thinking about that poster this morning a little more deeply.

So what do you do?

Who are you?

* Although odds are about fifty-fifty that his answer would be “I crash parties and steal canapes! Mwahahaha!” followed by scampering sounds as he disappeared out the side door with smoked salmon gougeres dropping from his jacket.

So as I’ve been crowing about to select females in my in-group, I got a custom-made dress for the big social event of this summer, which (being a gay wedding in Montreal) was pretty much the least I could do. I cannot even tell you how perfectly it fits. You will just have to wait for photos.

It’s navy with white polka dots and it is gorgeous beyond gorgeous.

After I opened the box and tried it on I was like, “Huh. Shoes.” And then: “Oh shit, SHOES!”

White shoes would be the obvious choice and if I can find a pair in the next two weeks that looks sufficiently 1940s-stylin’ to complement the dress, I’ll certainly get them. But wouldn’t it be nice to have a pair of navy-and-white shoes? Say, a pair of pumps like this but in navy?

Then I remembered that I, by a staggering coincidence, already own a pair of navy-and-white shoes!

…Although I’m pretty sure I will be beaten with a stick if I attempt to wear these to the wedding. Back to the drawing board.