The Ides of March

March 15 2010 1:30 pm

Sitting in a lawyer's office. Sign here. And here. Initial here. Sign here. Should this say this? Initial here. Sign here. Is this legal? Sign here.

Cafe sold. Shake hands with new owners. Checks dispensed--to lawyers; to landlord; to realtors; finally, to me. Not much there but enough to pay final payroll. Done by 2:30.

Who


am


I?


How did we become so defined by what we do rather than who we are? Extrinsic value is all. For 20 years I was defined by "college writing teacher." For the last twelve by "owner of coffeeshop(s)." Suddenly--and while the cafe was for sale for over a year, the final moments were very sudden--I am without a definition because I am "only" me.

Our "what" is the first thing people learn about us--or ask about us. At a party, you will never hear as a first question "So, are you a killer Mah Jongg player with a decidedly snarky wit?" No, of course not. "Nice to meet you. What do you do?" is always the opener. My sister can answer "I'm an attorney." My husband, "The director of a private non-profit." My brother. . . ohh, I'm not going there; he may be the only person I know who really does manage to define himself by who he is not what he does--very 1960's but it doesn't work for many people.

So, now, I have to carve out a new definition and I'm not sure I like it. Why can't I be all the people I am, all the imaginings, all the quirks and sniffles and sighs rather than "I'm a . . ."? But maybe I'll try. Maybe next time I'm asked "What do you do?", I'll answer "Cut my toenails."