Ask me about my job

I don't really like people who don't ask me about my job. Does that make me a petty, petty bitch?

I know people don't like to hear about battered women, to have to acknowledge that there's a problem in our country with men hitting women. I don't think there's anything inherently wrong or bad about not wanting to think about it. (I don't particularly like thinking about poverty. It's damn depressing.) But.

I sure do like talking about my job. Ask me if I like it, I'll say, "Oh my god. I love domestic violence so much. Um . . . working in the field, that is." I think it's fascinating, exhilarating, and occasionally heartbreaking. It's during the extremes that I like--no, need--to talk about it.

I don't do it much, though. I've learned to keep my mouth shut around Tim, who, try as he might, has a difficult time hearing about the bad stuff. At social gatherings, when I say what I do, people shift nervously, clear their throat, and say, "er, that's great . . ." and find conversation elsewhere. I'm so used to that response that I am unnerved when people actually want to know about it. I stammer and say something flip, usually.

I never wanted a job to define who I was. But this one does. So when people don't ask about it, I feel like they're not asking about me.