Sticker Shock — Part 2

May 23, 2008, I had an essay, Sticker Shock, published in The Globe and Mail. In it I confessed to Impostor Syndrome brought on by a cobalt blue belly dance bumper sticker from my mother-in-law. With little talent and none of the elaborate costumes, I felt I hadn’t earned the right to drive around with such a sticker on the back of our car.

I wrote an essay, shoved the sticker in a file folder and made a bold prediction. By the time we got around to replacing our Altima, which had only 153,000 kms (92,000 miles) on it, I would be ready to embrace my inner dancer. I wrote:

“… I haven’t chosen that all-important belly dance name. I have no I Dream of Jeannie costumes either. Just yoga wear and a cheap hip scarf that flings its coins across the room as I shake. Nameless, costumeless and graceless, I show up, I listen, I try to dance.

…I’ve got plenty of time to learn how to shimmy… [When I do] I’ll announce it with my perfectly preserved bumper sticker, slapped on a brand-spanking new fender.”

Big words from a woman who thought she had 3 to 5 years to get her shimmy down pat.

On May 25, 2009, almost exactly a year after the Globe essay, our black cherry Altima lost an argument with another vehicle. By a minor miracle, only the car suffered irreparable damage, but my perspective on what is and isn’t important changed.

The other day, I filed away the last of the insurance papers, and came across the bumper sticker again. After a few minutes debate, I took an inventory. I now have one teal-blue beaded costume to my name, two recitals under my belt and a new-to-us silver Versa in the driveway.

Don’t get me wrong. I still dance like a marionette under the control of a demonic puppeteer. But that no longer matters.

If you see me, honk and wave.