“So, what do you do?”
The guy leans forward, all city slickness, adding, “You look like a designer.”
“Actually, I am a wildlife conservationist,” I meekly say, keeping up with the ping-pong game of what-do-you-do conviviality.
“A what conservationist?” incredulousness is writ large on the questioner’s face.
“Oh, dogs and cats.”
“No, tigers and falcons. In the forest.”
“But you don’t look like a wildlife conservationist,” he expertly avers.
“How does a conservationist look?”
“Like… more wild… more tough.”
Leeches bite, a lot, in the forest. But nothing that a woman can’t take.
At which point I put down my rum and coke with a lemon twist and move away from the man, because what he means – and what many other men and women mean – is that a wildlife conservationist should look more like a man.
When I was thinking of what I wanted to do, wildlife…
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