“So, what do you do?”

It’s the single most important question in Manhattan conversation, the critical point in which your identity, or at least a packaged version of it, is revealed. We define each other instantly upon hearing the answer - he’s an accountant, she does tech support for a website, he’s a management consultant. This insta-labeling is so shamelessly obvious that some people are driven to stutter and apologize over what they do, offering halting explanations for why their job doesn’t miraculously encapsulate their entire existence.

“I work for a celebrity magazine - but I’m not a shallow vacuous Brad Pitt-worshiping cliche dammit! I am a journalist. This crap pays the bills.”

Or:

“I’m an investment banker. But I have shoulder length hair and play in a hipster band in Fort Greene, so I’m not just some wannabe character in a Tom Wolfe novel.”

I’ve been a little stymied by the question recently. Before, I’d just toss out “I’m a lawyer,” and sit back for the reaction - usually raised eyebrows followed by “Oh, how interesting. Um, seems I need a refill nicetohavemetyougoodbye.” Nowadays, I have no desire to explain the whole muddled truth to a random person at a cocktail party, and chances are they have no desire to hear it. So I’ve been trying on various non-lawyer identities for size, and seeing how I then play out in others’ eyes.

“I’ve been living in Moscow training cats for circus competition.”

Or

“I run the roller coaster in Coney Island.”

Or maybe:

“I’m the girl in the giant banana suit passing out smoothie coupons on 51st and Lex.”

Suffice it to say my experiment has made the standard party chat considerably more interesting.