So, tell me about yourself.

Oh, how I hate that statement. It isn’t a question, really, it’s a command and it always seems to come from an audience ready to judge and judge harshly. It doesn’t matter if it’s a prospective employer, neighbor, or boyfriend. Whenever the dreaded phrase is uttered I get this buzzing sensation between my ears and my brain … shuts … down.

About myself – ummm.

I have developed a series of fallbacks. I’ll talk about my family, my favorite color or the number of cities I have lived in since I was three. I’ll throw out some random information that matches the spirit of the question like how one of my feet is half a shoe-size bigger than the other. At least then I get a follow-up question because, yes, I do wear the same size shoes on both feet.

Basically it’s one of those generic phrases that are vague enough so there is no responsibility on the questioner’s part. Hey, I didn’t ask. That’s what she said.

Professors ask it at the beginning of the semester trying to connect your name and why they should remember you. It’s another one of those stock phrases that guys pull on first dates because they can’t think of anything else. It’s a nice idea. I mean, at least he’s not talking about his collection of garbage pail lids or the “and I sneezed” version of last year’s deer hunt.

It’s the question that leaves me wondering what they really want to know. What does “tell me about yourself” mean anyway? Did you want to know my weight? Hobbies? Mother’s maiden name? Forget it.

Perhaps I just don’t understand generalities. Maybe I’m not good at small talk or maybe it’s because my job description starts with asking questions.

Call me reclusive, call me coy, but don’t call me unresponsive. It boils down to this: I’m not telling you – you figure it out.