Unemployed? Secret Agent? High-End Escort? Guess You’ll Never Know

Why I refuse to let my profession define me — or our conversation

The first thing people ask when they meet someone new — especially in a social setting, outside of work — is, “So, what do you do?” It’s a sterile, uninspired question, one that strips a person down to their economic function, as if their entire existence could be neatly summed up in a LinkedIn headline. I understand why people ask — it’s an easy icebreaker, a convenient way to classify and categorise someone. But that’s precisely why I dislike it. People are not their jobs. A poet might pay the bills as an accountant. A passionate historian might be trapped in corporate law. A dancer might spend their days filling out spreadsheets. The job is often incidental, a practical necessity rather than an expression of identity. And yet, the moment that question is asked, the answer becomes the shorthand for who you are, defining you in the eyes of the other person before they’ve even seen you fully.

Giorgio de Chirico - The Uncertainty of the Poet, 1913

Does it matter to answer the question? In a pragmatic sense, perhaps. Careers give context to how people spend their time, what they might be knowledgeable about, what their daily realities look like. There is a certain efficiency in knowing what someone does because it places them within a recognisable framework of society. It may also signal shared interests — two lawyers might bond over courtroom dramas, two chefs over Michelin-starred ambitions. Profession can shape experience, and experience shapes worldview. So, yes, in that limited sense, it does matter. But in the deeper sense of what makes a person truly compelling? Hardly. If the most interesting thing about someone is their job title, they are either in an extraordinarily rare profession or, more likely, they have let the job consume them to the point that little else remains.

For me, it doesn’t matter. In fact, I never want to answer the question at all. There is something deeply unappealing about reducing myself to a profession, especially when I know how much more there is to me beyond it. My answer, invariably, is “Nothing”. People take it as a joke, assuming I’m being playful. But I remain unflinched, unfazed, letting the silence stretch. If they insist — particularly if it happens to be men — I assess the situation and, in the most composed, professional tone, I say, “I’m a high-end escort”. The reaction is always the same: a momentary flicker of shock, a recalibration of assumptions, and, most importantly, a full stop to the conversation. The sheer absurdity of it is what makes it entertaining — because, truly, what can they say next?! There is no polite follow-up. No one wants to press for details. And, in one swift move, I have drawn a boundary around a topic I had no desire to entertain in the first place.

It doesn’t even matter if I look the part or not, if I behave the part or not. The power of the statement lies in its defiance. It disrupts the script, the automatic exchange of predictable small talk. It reminds people that their assumptions about what is “normal” to ask, to know, to categorise — are flimsy at best. But more than that, it amuses me. Because the truth is, I get bored easily. Monotonous conversations drain me, and if I have to sit through another lifeless exchange about someone’s career trajectory, I might just start reciting random job descriptions to see if anyone is really paying attention. “I breed racing pigeons”. “I’m a ghostwriter for celebrity memoirs”. “I train dolphins for military operations”. Why not?! At least it keeps things interesting.

The real question, then, is: what should people talk about when they meet for the first time? What would make an interaction meaningful, rather than transactional? Instead of “What do you do?” why not ask “What fascinates you?” or “What’s the last thing that made you laugh uncontrollably?” or even something as simple as “What kind of people do you find interesting?” These are questions that allow for surprise, for curiosity, for the possibility of discovering someone beyond the roles they inhabit. Ask about the books they reread, the places they return to, the moments that changed them. Ask what they’re obsessed with, what keeps them up at night. The human mind is vast, and yet we narrow it down to a LinkedIn summary within the first five minutes of meeting someone.

Because the truth is, people are stories — layered, contradictory, wild, full of unexpected twists. And the best conversations are the ones that reveal those stories, not the ones that reduce them to bullet points on a résumé. At a dinner, at a party, at an event — wouldn’t it be far more thrilling to talk about the things that light people up, rather than the things that pay their rent? What if, instead of networking, we started storyworking — co-creating narratives that bring out the essence of who we really are, beyond the jobs we do to survive? Imagine how much richer our interactions would be.

So no, I will not tell you what I do. Not because it’s a secret, but because it simply doesn’t define me. And if you insist, well — don’t be surprised if you walk away thinking I’m a high-end escort. Or a dolphin trainer. Or a racing pigeon breeder. Who’s to say I’m not?!

Unbothered, unclassified, utterly uninterested in your LinkedIn,

T.