My face told him my approximate age. The awkward wedding reception silence told him to ask. I knew what was coming; the same thing that always came after the “nice to meet you” part.     “Do you work?” It’s not a question I get down here in Baja; the majority of women stay home and take care of the kids, cook, etc. But when I lived in the States—a perfectly normal question. I wanted to launch. I wanted to redefine his inquiry, spell it out, wrap it up and hand it back. You mean like for money? No, last time I checked there’s no salary for washing, changing, feeding,…