But why work?

I looked and looked and looked, but nothing.
My ICICI Bank account was still at zero. The account, created for the express purpose of depositing my salary (Digression alert: I had no choice in the matter, which must be illegal, I thought, but apparently, it’s not.) is still a virgin account, untouched by money, or even worked on.
I joined this office on the 21st, and I figured I’d get my salary this 20th; I remembered something of that sort being said at orientation.
I checked my account on the 20th, thought it might have to do with the whole Bakrid-Saturday-Sunday thing, and waited with bated breath for Monday, the 24th.
Logged in, and nothing!
A short panic attack followed, when a colleague said I’d be paid only on the 1st, but only for a month. But thankfully, that's not the case: (I think) I’ll be paid for forty-odd days, though I’ll get my salary only on the 31st.
When I told my mom, it didn’t even register a blip on her. “So what? As long as you get it,” she said. She clearly did not.
“You don’t understand,” I wanted to shout. “I need the salary after working for a month.”
Then, I realized I was exhibiting signs of insanity and paranoia: I almost bit my mom-in-law’s head off when she was multitasking when I related the sad news of my salary not being deposited yet. (“You don’t listen to me. My real mom always listens to me,” I lied!)
I stepped back and thought about why it meant so much to me: It probably had something to do with the fact that I was used to earning money for a long, long time. Also, the biweekly pay cycle in the U.S. had totally spoiled me. I also realized some things that are embarrassing to admit: It will probably take a few more years for me to think of my parents-in-law’s money as mine; consequently, them as my own, as well.
I had questioned this whole earning business for the first time only a few days ago when my gym master asked me, point-blank, “But why do you want to work?”
I scrambled for a suitable intelligent answer, but the truth is that I had never considered not working. As a middle-class woman with fairly broad-minded parents, there never was any doubt that my sister and I would, one day, work. Or at the very least, equip ourselves to be able to get a job at a moment’s notice. (Digression: My sister is now a homemaker, and takes care of her son, but not working still weighs heavily on her mind.)
In any case, I now think about why I want to work, and have no real answer. I guess I’ve never thought about it. I don’t really have to work. By work, of course, I mean for money. Whenever I’ve thought about switching over to a voluntary job (read: without pay), something stops me. That something is probably the reason I think I have to work.
On the other hand, I have often asked myself questions about whether or not I want a child. People are usually zapped that I’m asking the question, when it’s “the most natural thing in the world.”
I suppose I’m just asking the wrong kind of questions in life!