Why Do I Care?

The contractor was in my house fewer than five minutes measuring for a new door to go between the garage and the kitchen. He's the last contractor we'll need to finish up the remodel of Chateau Travolta's kitchen -- other than him, it's stuff we can do ourselves -- install the range hood, finish the baseboard, replace the hardware on the pantry shelves that don't actually work the way they're supposed to, install the pulls. Just this one last guy after we had to fire the cabinet installation people after the third time they failed to show up without warning and replace them with some poor guy who was told the job would take three hours and was at my house from 9 am to 6:45 pm on Friday.

I showed him to the door wearing my usual pre-workout uniform of yoga pants, t-shirt, hat and flip-flops. He looked at me and smiled. "Don't work too hard," he said.

I actually did a double-take and found myself gesturing toward my desk, my laptop, the innards of the Internet -- where I do indeed  work a full-time job with a salary and health insurance and a 401(k) plan and everything. That full-time job covers half my family's expenses and without it, we'd be screwed.

I wanted to wipe the smile off his face.

If it had been just this guy, I probably wouldn't be so pissed off. But almost every contractor who has come into my house has made a similar comment, like they can't fathom I could possibly be working as I sit in my office and type away silently. Every single one of them has felt the need to comment something very similar to "don't work too hard." 

But why do I care what the contractors think? Beloved can't fathom why I would give a shit. They're here to do a job, we pay them, they leave. But it's that I'm here the entire time they are working. I hear the hint of derision in their voices as they ask which website I write for, again? And what exactly do I do there? 

I've given a few of them my business card to end the discussion. Yes, dumbass, I have a business card and a title and a corporate address.

BUT WHY DO I CARE WHAT THEY THINK? I know what I do for a living. I know I work really hard. I know when I need to, I can pull off normal business wear. Would anyone ask me what it is I do again, exactly, if I were typing away silently in an office building when they walked in carrying a ladder? I don't think so.

BUT I STILL SHOULD NOT CARE. WHY DO I CARE?

It's totally bugging me.