The other night I was telling a whimsical anecdote to some people at a pub when this academic type of fellow interrupted to ask a question that was at best off topic.
Rachel said she doesn’t answer those!
He was confused and I had to say explicitly I do not answer any questions about my identity.
He furrowed his brow and said None?
None.
So if I ask you if you are a woman, would you answer?
No.
He shook his head and I went back to telling my story.
The truth is I do not answer any categorical questions if I can avoid it – not about my occupation, offspring, orientation, education, relationship status, political affiliations, hometown, or name. I’ll talk about any and all of those subjects – but never in a way that allows an audience to apply a tidy label to my life.
Or rather, people are welcome to believe what they like; I refuse to provide the definition.
There are many reasons for this stance, from the smart (a desire to avoid sketchy people from my past) to the pathological (my love of secrets is perhaps not the healthiest aspect of my character).