I must take it as more than coincidence that in the span of a day, I had two different people tell me that I’m intimidating.

My first reaction is to think, “Intimidating?! Me?” What’s intimidating about by a semi-soft, nearsighted copywriter? I sit on a computer all day, people! I have crooked teeth, too many beauty marks, wear size 12 jeans from Eddie Bauer, and pick my nose. I’m developing a second chin and spin my wheels on projects for months without moving forward. What about self-dep week? How could that possibly be intimidating?

This is my first reflex, then: to minimize myself. Oh, I wouldn’t want you to be intimidated. Let me tell you all the ways I hate myself. See? Now you feel better about yourself.

… But wait a minute! How fucked up is that? Why does making others feel bigger have to be reliant on making myself smaller? Then I want to puff myself up and crow, “Hell yeah you should be intimidated — I KICK ASS. But don’t you see that you do too?” Instead of trying to make myself worse so that everyone else can feel better, why can’t I encourage everyone else to feel as good as they seem to think I do? (Key issue: don’t be fooled by the bluster, folks: even cocky bastards doubt themselves and struggle down their hallways of demons.)

I’m reminded of a conversation I had last year with an old friend. She sent me a long, carefully thought-out email explaining, in part, “When I looked at you, I saw so many great and wondrous qualities. I wanted those qualities in myself and felt I did not posses them or didn’t have the tools to possess them naturally. For years I felt this way and unfortunately I allowed this to get in the way of growing with you as a friend. I felt only half present in our discussions. The other half being consumed by the negative energies of my jealousy and envy which cost me both my vitality and love I have for you as a friend.”

Goodness gracious. How does one respond to such an email! I took my time to think it through, and here’ was my reply: “We all have crucial lessons to learn from each other (I learned a lot from your email!), and when I feel like I’m being put in a position of undeserved superiority, my immediate reaction is to brush it off and plead with the person not to put me on a pedestal. Or rather, if you’re going to put me on a pedestal, do so from your own pedestal! Does that make sense? You’re allowed to admire me, as long as you’re admiring yourself and allowing me to do so, too.”

I guess my perspective on intimidation is that it’s a way we have of minimizing ourselves; a way each of us denies our own capacity for power. In a way, this relates to that old post I wrote, The Inspirers. I’m wary of being held up too high because I’m so keenly aware that often when I do that to people, it’s because I’m not seeing that the things I admire in them that exist (or could exist) inside me. All too often, in my past I’ve not realized that the god I’m seeing in the other person’s character is actually a recognition of my own inner strength and potential. As the most infamous of cocky bastards says, “I’m simply celebrating my journey. I’m not saying I’m any better than anybody else. On the contrary, I think EVERYONE has the capacity to be truly great. I strive for greatness and encourage everyone to live their epic myth.” Amen, Reverend Hal.

I’ve met people who think they’re intimidating; some folks seem to cultivate it as an identity. But it’s like Dancer in the Dark or The Wizard of Oz: once you can see the levers being pulled, the emotional tricks stop working. That guy who spoke in rapid-fire mile-a-minute marketing jargon? He had no fucking clue what the hell he was saying. That client at The Paper who blustered into every meeting and interrupted your proposals with demands? She knew that if you thought she was pushy, you wouldn’t question her creative briefs. Once you can hear the clicking and whirring, these intimidators start looking like everyone else.

So now I want to talk about people who are intimidating. I’ll go first. I am intimidated by baristas. Especially at the coffee shop right around the corner from my house. They refuse to make eye contact with me, preferring instead to gossip with each other and glance at me only when ringing up my beverage. I am on the outside looking in, a lone tea drinker in a sea of hipper-than-thou coffee fiends. I always tip too much and leave feeling mildly humiliated. It’s pointless, but it’s true.