Why I Never Ask People About Their Day Jobs

This is what I ask instead...

Seattle Engineering Department office Christmas party 1959, Wikimedia Commons

“So what do you do?” 

It’s the perennial question at parties and gatherings — and I know never to ask it. You probably shouldn’t either. Because while it’s almost everyone’s go-to ice-breaker, it can sink a conversation quicker than the Titanic. 

For years, I used to dodge this question like a firecracker flung at my feet, and that’s because I was a frustrated writer embarrassed by my day job. From my late 20s to early 30s, after leaving a short-lived teaching career, I stumbled into a series of temporary admin roles.

Mainly, these were at universities across Glasgow. I thought that the atmosphere of learning at these hallowed, honeycombed halls of knowledge would soak into my temp jobs, elevating them. Of course, it did no such thing.

The joys and rewards of university life are mainly for academics and students — if you’re an administrator stuck in the rabbit warren of beige, stuffy offices, you witness university life as if from behind plexiglass. The quads and lecture halls are no longer yours because your place is now in the corner by the photocopier. And all the while, you’re chasing shadow selves — the student you once were, or the academic you could have been (if you’d only had the spare cash for a Masters).

Yet the worst part of these jobs wasn’t having to do them, it was having to talk about them. Because inevitably, when I was at a party or chatting to someone new in the pub, they’d ask me “So what do you do?”

I dreaded this question, because what was there to say? “I work in a low-paid, low status, low stakes temp job” — it doesn’t really trigger a blazing, comet trail conversation, does it? I didn’t want to talk about how I’d been a teacher but had to give up my career due to stress. I didn’t want to discuss how my life suddenly felt accidental and unplanned, a blurry map with no straight roads, just tangled and twisting tracks leading to trick dead-ends.

I wasn’t on the bottom rung of a ladder I wanted to climb, I was stuck down a well with no rope. It was painful to acknowledge that I spent eight and a half hours a day doing something that meant nothing to me. There were times when I would be walking to work, see the office block looming ahead, and feel an ache in my chest. I’d think, “This can’t be my life”.

Yet People at Parties really wanted me to tell them what I did.

The problem with “So what do you do?” — aside from it being a dull conversational fallback — is that it’s a far from casual question. It’s loaded with bullets and claws, even if that’s not the intention of the person asking. Granted, sometimes people throw this question at you just to make conversation. But sometimes, they ask it in order to sort, categorise, and box you, to decide if you are useful or interesting or impressive.

I didn’t want to be put in the box of “person who spends a large chunk of her day gazing at spreadsheets and standing by a photocopier”. But I had to answer the question, didn’t I? I had to play along.

There I’d be at the get-together, wearing my crimson lipstick, mingling, sipping gin & tonic. I’d be chatting to someone and they’d ask the question.

“So what do you do?”

Inwardly, I would tense and squirm, like a cat being dangled over a carrier cage. “Oh, I’m just temping right now”.

“Oh — great”.

“And what do you do?”

And maybe they’d say, “I’m a lawyer / PR consultant / doing a PhD in Physics”. And they might state this airily, so as not to seem boastful, so as to try and close the gap between us. Yet that only made the gap seem wider.

Or maybe they’d say, “Yeah, I’m temping too”.  Then we’d gaze at each other dull-eyed, two disillusioned 20-somethings lurking under the murky brown veil of our perceived failures, desperately trying to steer the flailing conversation elsewhere. 

Either way, I’d no longer be my sparkling social self — the me who wanted to talk about books and films and Big Ideas. Instead, I’d be my failure self, collapsed and deflated.

Now I can see that I was just going through a perfectly normal 20-something slump. I can also see that there is zero shame in temping or anything else that pays the bills. But back then, I felt like I was wasting my potential, was trapped, had slipped through the cracks in life. I was afraid that it was all over for me, that I’d messed up my future. When you’re working class, you don’t always get a second chance — one wrong move and it can all be over. Temping starts to feel like a permanent error.

Yet it turned out that it wasn’t permanent. Eventually, I zig-zagged my way into a career as a copywriter and stopped dreading the dreaded question. That’s because people seem to view copywriting as vaguely creative and interesting, when in fact it’s often poorly paid, stressful and boring. I leave them to their illusions though.

But I learned a golden rule in life: never ask people “So what do you do?”

Because if that person hates their job or is ashamed by it, then you’re taking an icepick to their sparkling social self and puncturing the projection they’re desperate to send out into the world. The shiny bubble pops to reveal the lost and scared person underneath — and not just to others, but to themselves as well.

“Yes, but”, you might say, “Some people really want to talk about their jobs — maybe they’ve got an interesting career or are making a difference in the world. I’d kind of like to hear about that”.

Trust me, if someone has an impressive or intriguing job, you’ll never have to ask them “So what do you do?” They’ll mention it outright or, at least, steer the conversation in that direction.

“Yes, but also”, you might say, “Small talk is awkward. If I meet someone new and can’t ask ‘So what do you do?’, then how on earth will I keep the conversation flowing?” Well, I’ll give you another, better question to ask that I promise will lead you both somewhere far more interesting than a photocopier or spreadsheet.

Ask “So what do you like to do?” instead.

Sometimes this will open up a simple conversation about hobbies, which is cool. People love talking about their pastimes and you might learn something new. 

Other times, they’ll talk about lost hobbies. They’ll say, “Well I used to skateboard / DJ / play guitar, but I don’t do that so much anymore”.

Then you can ask, “Could you find the time to do it again?” And they’ll smile and say, “You know what? Maybe I could”. And they’ll realise that when you’re looking at them, you’re seeing a skater or DJ or guitarist, and they’ll like that. 

And sometimes when you ask “So what do you like to do?”, that person starts telling you about their secret passions and dreams. Their eyes light up, they lean in closer. They tell you about the political thriller they’re trying to write, or experimental synth album they want to make, or niche madeira wine bar they hope to open someday. You’ll be surprised at the treasures people hold close to their chests, the cherished visions, the glittering ambitions. And they’ll be surprised that you’re actually interested enough to listen.

When you ask “So what do you like to do?”, you might end up with a potential new friend, rather than just another person you’re making strained small talk with. Plus, you get a chance to encourage their secret dream, to stoke that smouldering spark. And there are few better feelings in the world.  

You don’t need to know what that person standing beside you at the party does for a living — not unless they want to tell you. But finding out what they do to feel more alive? That’s really worth knowing.

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The Beckoning is written by a wandering Scottish writer who is currently travelling across the UK as a full-time house-sitter. I hope that you’ll join me on the journey.