I adore pit bulls. With small exception, they are energetic, resourceful, agile, and loyal. They are an opposable thumb and bark translator away from making great attorneys. So why do I cringe when I am compared to one? The answer is not complicated. I cringe because I am a woman and because pit bulls are, well, dogs.
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On the cusp of my 40s, I began toying with the idea of a midlife rejuvenation. I wasn’t shopping around for a full-on crisis or reinvention, just something to add to my repertoire of interests. I was daughter, auntie, girlfriend, and lawyer; but while I had plenty of roles, I had a striking scarcity of hobbies. It was time to take inventory of how I spent my free time and perhaps add a little spice to my days.
I needed something physical to appreciate my health while I had it, before the inevitable mobility limitations of aging showed up to the party. I tried rollerblading, mountain biking, and—for a split second—archery. None stuck.
During a trip to REI to look for inspiration, I wandered into the previously ignored section of ropes and mysteriously elfish footwear. I eavesdropped on a salesperson explain the benefits of something called a locking carabiner. She was enthusiastic and met with the same from her shoppers.
Rock climbing. I had an old boyfriend who occasionally did it. I had seen the award-winning documentary Free Solo. I knew climbing was a thing. Maybe I could make it my thing.
