Lemony Snicket says, “There are two kinds of fears: rational and irrational—or in simpler terms, fears that make sense and fears that don’t.”

Many of my fears make no sense. On the other hand, there are times when I should be afraid, but it doesn’t occur to me.

For example, when I was a child, I played with popsicle sticks in the dirt at our schoolyard. We did not have a lot of toys. (Cue the violins.) One day an older boy taunted me by riding his bike straight through my popsicle stick edifice, stirring up dust and splintering the wood. After the third run through, I yanked him off his bicycle, not bothering to consider that the child towered over me. That big boy sat on my shoulders then punched my face until he drew blood. Fortunately, the sight of blood streaming out of my nose startled him. He biked away. As a child, to my detriment, I did not experience the rational fear that keeps reasonable people alive.

On the other hand, all my life, I’ve been irrationally frightened of creatures that cannot harm me, like puppies. When my Goldendoodle, Sadie, was about six months old, she’d give me a funny look then would dash toward me. Of course, I’d run away, which resulted in her chasing me around the house. At times, I felt so terrified that the hair on my arms stood up. I decided that my own dog hated me. Desperate, I called my dog-loving friend for help. When Karen walked in, she sat down by Sadie and of course, the puppy snuggled up and gave her a doggy kiss.  As the two of them bonded, Karen looked up at me. I could tell she was fighting the urge to roll her eyes. In a “bless your heart” voice, she said, “You need to stop running away from your dog. Just pick her up and show her who is boss.” I stopped running and Sadie stopped chasing.

Baby animals scare me, but adult bears, not so much. We live by Ivy Creek Nature Preserve. In the spring and fall, as many as three times per week, I find bear skat on our front walk.

Maybe it’s because I’ve written for children or maybe it’s because I have a screw loose, but I’ve always pictured our nocturnal visitor as a cute, furry fellow who peers through our front window, hoping we’ll share our porridge and comfy beds. When we don’t offer food or a comfy bed, the jolly soul just poops and leaves—a Goldilocks story in reverse.

One spring evening, a friend lingered at my house after book club. When she was about to leave, it occurred to me to mention the possibility of encountering Jolly Bear in our driveway. Immediately, the woman balked at going out unaccompanied. That surprised me because she had recently finished a stint in the military as a helicopter pilot who had to perform risky rescues over the ocean.

Without hesitating, I grabbed my flashlight and escorted her to her car. I felt very brave. After all, it was only Jolly Bear lurking out there. The truth is, though, I wasn’t brave at all. If someone had told me a litter of kittens was cavorting in the driveway, the helicopter pilot would have had to find another escort.

Dan Ariely says, “People are irrational—and predictably so.” I guess I fit the bill. However, maybe age has brought me wisdom. Last year, when a bunch of rowdy movie theater patrons intentionally harassed me, I did not engage. Instead, I fake-smiled, took a deep breath then walked away, which was a step in the right direction.