Why Dudes Don't Like Me (And Why Alphas Don't Like My Dog)

Really...who could hate this guy?

            I took my dog to the dog park a few years ago.  He’s been back since, once or twice, but the truth is, he hates it.  It’s a lovely little park in Hillsboro, named in honor of a fire department dog named Hondo. It’s fenced so that you can let your dog walk without a leash and mingle with the other dogs. Donovan, our black Lab, ran into the fenced area and was so excited to see all the people and their pets. (Donz is a bit of a spazz.) He was almost immediately spotted by a group of five or six dogs or so.  As a pack, they chased Donovan to one corner of the park. They barked, and I could see that not only were the dogs pissed at Donovan’s brazen entrance into the park, but my dog has rolled onto his back.  He was submissive.  We and the other pet owners had to pull the pack off of him. He was fine, but I knew he would never be the alpha and it would never be in his nature to challenge the alpha.

            We returned to the same park a month or two later, and Donovan never left our side. We sat on a bench and he hid underneath.  Poor dude.  He’s a people-dog. 

            I thought of this incident last year while in therapy.  I actually spent a few minutes talking about it.  The similarity to my personality was worth examining.  You see, it is my assertion that guys hate me.  Guys. Dudes. Men with ample testosterone.  I have a lifetime of examples to back this up, all starting when I was a little boy.  It’s not such an obvious distinction, either.  It’s not that I didn’t share the same hobbies and interests with dudes.  Sometimes I did.  But often I would get a glare, a vibe or a shitty comment from a dude when I was in his presence.  He smelled something on me.  Just like the dog pack smelled on Donovan.  I was low on the totem pole.  I’m not a challenger, and I’m not the leader.  There are only two categories left.  Female, or non-entity.

            The sense is that I disgust them. I don’t belong there. I’m not a jerk or an asshole.  I’m just...not worth their time. Luckily, I don’t spend a lot of time in their proximity.

            I can’t help this.  There isn’t a way around it.  It’s trapped in our lizard brains.  It’s the same archaic stimulus that tells you that someone is strong or sexy or creepy.  It’s a feeling.  I can’t say anything to convince you that I’m not submissive.  To a dude, all my attempts are just squeals and buzzes.

            However, to many women, I don’t get that reaction.  The same vibe is interpreted differently.  I am a safe man to be around.  It must be a whiff of something not unlike estrogen.  I’m a good guy, a good father, a responsible guy.  Women confide in me more often than men. And the men who confide in me are more or less like me.  There have been a few women who have given me similar looks as dudes.  My guess is that they subconsciously know I ‘m not the type of man they are attracted to and thereby I’m not a likely suitor.  This goes on a few levels deep of course.  In reality, they’re cool.  (I’ve learned it’s not a good idea to speculate what women are thinking about. I’m not that dumb.)

            Regardless, my ego wants to emulate the alphas in different ways. Even though I know the reality…I still have a brain that dreams big. I want to write heroic stories and be cool in front of everyone and have a big personality. I daydream about being bigger than life.  Then and only then will the alphas understand my true greatness!  But then my daydreaming is over.  I slink back to my home.  It’s comfy and cool.  Time to read another novel about time travel.

            My therapist said that these members of societies all have their roles to play.  Behaviorists have studied pack animals and these scenarios occur with every generation.  The fighters, the leaders, the hunters, and the nurturers all contribute to the whole.  Although I believe a human being can rise above his station, there is something about their brain wiring that always knows what kind of person he really is, deep down.

            Donovan and I stay behind.  We aren’t fighters.  Others are designed for confrontation and slaying the enemy. Not us.  We hang back. I think and write and raise my kids and read and learn and create and watch superhero movies.  Donovan…well, he sleeps and eats.  And steals my spot on the damn couch.