Intimidation

Every day, Molly and I stroll through the park - where stroll means I try to keep her moving and she's walking through a scratch-and-sniff paradise - and for the most part, things are calm. But when another dog-and-walker unit approaches, or even just a walker, I tend to rein her in, after a quick review of body language. She's not that big (at least, not compared to the British Mastiff in my extended family) but she is a Rottweiler, and people have expectations. Mostly negative ones, which means they're poised to avoid her at all costs, and their little dogs Toto too. Little do they know.

Molly's the sweetest dog of her size I've ever met, even calm and slightly reserved with other dogs. She's positively shy when it comes to people - it took her a week to adjust to having me in the house, and she still gets up and moves out of the way if we make eye contact as I walk through a room. (On the other hand, East Coast Guy had her at hello.) The running theory is that she wasn't well treated by her previous owners, and it's made her skittish. Once I get close enough to say to my fellow dog walker, "It's OK, she's really friendly," we have a delightful exchange of dog-related pleasantries and comments on the weather, as the dogs in question make friends. (She did swipe a big green throw toy from a miniature schnauzer at the off-leash area on Tuesday morning, but she brought it to me promptly and didn't steal it again.) She's a lovely girl.

In the past year, several close friends have told me I'm intimidating. Aside from my height (and there are plenty of men and women taller than me in this city), I don't totally get it. I'm friendly, but I hate walking into a party alone just as much as you do. I mispronounce words and worry about getting food caught in my teeth daily. I have to re-orient myself every time I come up from the subway (despite prominent signs indicating which corner you'll be on when you get to the street), and sometimes I still walk the wrong way. Several blocks.

I make bad choices, like getting out of a cab after midnight in an unknown part of Brooklyn because the driver doesn't know where we are either, and then I leave my hat and gloves in the car and am only rescued because a friend from the party texts me to check that I'm ok and I realize that I'm lost and liable to freeze to death before I figure out how to get home, so I text back, no, I'm not ok, please call me. I drank the Kool-Aid at work several years ago, but I don't know what I'm doing a fair percentage of the time, and I hate picking up the telephone (which is now an important part of my job. Oops.). I don't know what I want to be when I grow up, but I know I don't want my career to be the sum of my legacy.

In other words, I don't have my shit together in any way shape or form. It may look good on the outside, but peek through the window, baby, and you'll see I'm just keeping it together with double-sided tape and a smile.