Communication and connection are hard, and one method people use to circumvent the awkwardness that comes with meeting someone new—unless you’re one of those people like my father who talks up a storm with everyone about everything, in which case, good for you—is with small talk.

Most of us have a line of benign and inconsequential chatter we rely on when meeting new people or interacting with others at the parasocial level—the “How was your weekend?” we proffer to the barista or cashier isn’t terribly sincere, nor do we expect a comprehensive or real answer.

The correct answer to whatever version of, “How’s it going?” you receive is, “Fine.” “Good” is also allowed. Nothing terribly real or dire if you can avoid it.

Honest exchanges are hella disconcerting.

Our patter gets a little more personal when the social interaction is a family and/or friends meet-and-greet of some type. The questions we ask each other in those situations are a smidge more personal and probing – there’s more space to answer, for one thing. Conservations at checkouts et al are mostly conducted while in motion. You’re killing time and silence while passing through.

With next-level, stationary small talk, the questions seek more than a one-word response. It’s about generating a conversation rather than filling dead air. Still, even in this arena, there are popular and predictable queries: Where do you live? Do you have kids? Have you always been purple?

What do you do?

“What do you do” always feels a bit like a value judgment to me. Are you a lawyer, or do you work for McDonald’s? Are you a tradesperson, or “only” a delivery driver? Do you work in customer service, and if so, when are you getting a “real” job?

Perhaps I’m defensive because I don’t work for other people or for money anymore. I’m on disability these days. That’s an answer that people think tells them something about me. They’re wrong. It’s hard to extrapolate correctly with only a little bit of information.

Unless I clarify that it’s my broken brain, they don’t even know the disability why. I do tend to clarify the cause. I’m not particularly ashamed of having mental illness, and other people’s reactions to my disclosure tell me a bit about them too.

But knowing I live with mental illness doesn’t tell you as much about me as some seem to think, any more than knowing that someone is a day trader gives you insight into their inner workings.

I’m not the only person the occupation question irks. I read an essay about this topic some years back. That author didn’t care for limiting questions either. We’re more than one aspect, yet, “What do you do?” feels like it’s trying to put us in a unidimensional box.

It feels like judgment, and who needs that? Unless the answer was, “judge.”

I don’t like being asked the question, so I stopped asking it of other people. Still, conversation requires words, and eliciting information demands questions be asked. Following a piece of advice from the aforementioned article, I decided to rephrase in a way that made the answer smaller, only part of the puzzle that is us.

“What do you do for work?”

Phrasing it in this way acknowledges that work is only one part of our whole. Putting work into a box allows us to recognize that there’s depth and complexity in the definition of our life. It acknowledges that there are, in this life, despite corporations’ best efforts, non-work-related things in our lives.

I don’t work for other people anymore, as I’m on long-term disability related to mental illness, but I have a blog, a dog, and a sporadic yoga practice.

We’re like ogres. We’re onions. We have layers.

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