Musings of a Drunken Monk: Individual Entry Archive

Yesterday evening I attended an alumni hobnobbing function for my college. It was interesting enough, I suppose, with the requisite social posturing and asking how/what everyone is doing. This time, of course, there was a great deal of condolences about lousy "at least it's a job" jobs, along with well-wishings in the torpid economy. Nothing particularly surprising.

At this event I was forced to recognize something about my own job that I knew all along but didn't want to think about. Whenever I'm asked what I do, I tell people where I work. I'd rather not tell them the specifics about the peon-like existence I live. When people hear where I work, they always make noises of being impressed; after all, it does sound kind of impressive. Naturally I would rather keep it at that, but social graces dictate that one must press the issue and ask my actual title. So they ask.

Invariably I tell them my position, and I've come to recognize easily just how quickly the interest fades from their face. Let me correct myself: the interest doesn't fade so much as it flees. Unfortunately, for both myself and the "interested" party, social graces again dictate that they continue forward and ask about what exactly I do. This is where I tell them, and we both do our best to steer the conversation in a new direction.

I hate how I bore people.