Written several years ago, updated recently…

There is no other object in my life that has caused me to contemplate my image as much as my front bumper. Two winters ago, I was backing out of my driveway and I partially ran over a large rock covered with snow. The kids and I heard quite a crunch, but we quickly forgot about it as we cranked up the Mini Pops CD and began belting out unidentifiable lyrics while heading town.

It wasn’t until a couple of days later (yes, that’s how observant I am) that I stood gawking at my front bumper, torn to pieces, as I sprayed it down in the carwash. The injustice! My husband and I had never bought a brand-new vehicle and this one was no exception. But it was new to us, and now, after only owning it for six months, my enjoyment of my once picturesque 2004 Chevy Venture minivan vanished with the swift sweep of a carwash spray wand that revealed my destruction.

And then another, perhaps more significant, pang of worry entered my mind: How would I explain this one to my husband? He had been working nights and hadn’t seen my van. My tactic was to blame him for the rock he was supposed to have moved out of our driveway in the fall and then, outright lie about never having heard that he asked me if it was okay to leave it until spring. It sort of worked.

Needless to say, my poor minivan was suffering from some damage that even plastic surgery couldn’t fix—it needed a whole new appendage. I know this because about a month later, when I couldn’t stand looking at it any longer and I was still avoiding pricing out a new bumper (which I later discovered was a “bumper cover” but I’m not one for details), I shamelessly attempted to duct tape the pieces together, some of which were still hanging on and some of which were in our boot room closet. (Already getting a clear picture about the kind of life I lead, aren’t you?)

The genius in this plan was that my minivan was silver, the same hue as ever-nifty duct tape. After much cutting, wrapping and cursing, I stood back to admire my work. My front bumper was mummified. A non-observant passerby would certainly miss it—mission accomplished. That was, until the tape began to fray, mud began to stain it, and my front bumper began to look like a fallen Humpty Dumpty once more. My van and I were sad.

Every once in awhile, to discern how noticeable the wound was, I would awkwardly slip in a comment to someone I was in conversation with. “So hey, have you noticed my handiwork?” I’d say, pointing at my bumper. Some would say, flatly, “I noticed. Nice camouflaging.” Damn those observant people! And others, to my delight, would stand aback in shock and say, “Wow, what did you do?”

So, it was standoutish, but not that standoutish. I was okay with that. That was, until my husband, who really doesn’t care much about material appearances (as per his 1997 paint-faded Tracker), began to back into parking spots during soccer season.

The first time he did this, I anxiously asked him in a pitch several octaves higher than my normal voice “Why are you backing in?” while slamming my hand onto his chest as though to somehow stop him.

“Why not? Quick getaway out of the parking lot when the game is over,” he said as he climbed out of the vehicle with a quizzical look on his face that read What the hell? All the soccer families, many with fancy SUVs and trucks, front bumper intact, could see (and judge, if they chose) our vehicular disgrace. I was too ashamed to admit to him that the front of our van would then be exposed to the world like an inadequate nudist—I felt ashamed. And I didn’t want the kids to contract the contagion of shame.

If you read my last blog, you’ll have briefly met Blame. Blame can often be loud and in-your-face (or rather, in someone else’s face), but Shame is quite the opposite; she doesn’t like to be seen. We may hear the murmurings of Shame, but don’t always acknowledge her on a conscious level.

From the shadows where she hides, she whispered to me in an anxious, hissing voice: You know what this means, don’t you? You’re not successful enough to afford a really nice vehicle like the rest of these people. “Poor those parents,” they’ll all say about you and your husband, “they’re obviously failures.” So you must be. A failure, that is. Didn’t you think you’d be doing a lot better by this point in your life? It’s obvious you don’t deserve better.

Okay, that stung. I mean, it really stung. No wonder I avoid Shame like the plague.

She’s so convincing when she skirts about so elusively in my mind. Look around you, she continued, these are the people who own perfect homes, never argue about bills, and wouldn’t bat an eye about buying a trip to Hawaii never mind replacing a front bumper.

And then, damn that Fear, he spat out his panicky two bits: Get it fixed now, you fool, before the whole world sees that monstrosity!

Would these obviously-perfect soccer parents assume that we were too lazy to get it fixed? Too cheap? Too broke? The latter two would be most accurate; used bumper covers run around $200-300 a shot at a wrecking yard—I couldn’t even bear to learn what they cost new.

The next thing I knew, I blurted out to my husband, “Why did you go on that hiking trip last weekend, that could have been money toward this bloody front bumper!” Blame leapt at her chance to join the I-feel-shitty-about-myself party. She blindfolded me from remembering that I was the one who broke it in the first place. She’s such an easy go-to, she somehow convinces me she’s protecting me from the world.

Why was I having such a hard time with this?

I grabbed my chair out of the van and distractedly walked down to my son’s soccer game. I recalled something Carl Jung once wrote: “Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.” I concluded that though I’d rather run over another rock in my driveway than continue to sit with these unpleasant feelings, getting to know them a bit better was the only way I was going to figure this out.

Shame lurched out from the shadows again and said quietly, For all you’ve been given in life, you’re being quite vain to worry about what other people think about your front bumper. You’re so selfish. You should feel badly about that.

Once I shone a light on her, she actually sounded quite ridiculous! What? I replied. But you told me to feel badly about not being successful enough in life to get a new front bumper! Now I’m supposed to feel badly about feeling badly? Why do I listen to you? I’m a good person and my front bumper doesn’t make me any less. I heard myself sounding like Stuart Smalley from SNL: I’m good enough. I’m smart enough. And doggone it, people like me; I felt frustrated with Shame’s cruelty.

Shame gets her power from convincing people to feel like crap about themselves; she hates when we question her once she’s out of the dark. No one ever said that I make any sense, she said curtly.

I recalled an Oprah interview with Brené Brown. Brené said that shame tries to get us to buy into the belief that we’re alone and it thrives on secrecy, silence and judgment.

I turned to my husband and said, “Okay, fine. I’m feeling ashamed and embarrassed by the bumper. I know it’s silly, but I just am.”

“It’s okay,” he said, “we’ll look into getting a new one soon.”

Ah, the tender relief of sharing something we feel shameful about and hearing the words ‘it’s okay’. My shame dissipated, but I realized that I wasn’t sure if it was a repaired front bumper that I was really after. Time for more digging.

I came across an article that stated “[If we were blind], we would experience the pure joy of getting to know someone for who they are and not what they look like, what they wear, or the color of their skin.” It got me thinking about my public image: my clothes, my hair, my home, my minivan. Would I choose differently if others couldn’t see these? To a degree, yes. Gulp. It reminded me how much I care about what others think and how I shape part of my world to reflect that.

I realize that caring how others perceive us is a natural piece of human nature; fitting in often meant life or death in the hunter-gatherer days, which covers the vast majority of human history. Others perceived us as powerful hunters when we had many animal hides covering us on cold nights just as, presently, we assume power when we see someone driving a Lamborghini with the soft-top down on hot days.

But I no longer needed animal hides to convey my hunting prowess. Survival, even in our current world, still does depend somewhat on our public image, such as how we present ourselves at a job interview, but perhaps I could feel free to let some of my image concerns go. And my conversation with Shame made me want to take a stand. Could I let the front bumper just be?

I went through phases. Some days, I’d see someone driving a new vehicle, looking so suave and flashy, and I’d think Man, I’d love one of those. And look at that gorgeous front bumper! And then there’d be other days when I’d look at my van and think, You’ve got character. And I’m okay driving around in you because I’m secure enough within myself to know that my vehicle doesn’t equal how successful and fulfilled I am in life—even though others may think that, it doesn’t. Right? Stop it, it really doesn’t! (minor and hopefully inconspicuous conversations with myself).

There would even be fortuitous times when I would spot another vehicle with a messed up front bumper and I would feel at one with them, offering a wave and a closed fist double-thump to my chest (reciprocated only with a look of bewilderment) kind of like the bikers do to one another—sista! And I would see professors at the university where I work who would putt-putt into the parking lot with a decrepit VW station wagon and I would think, See? They don’t need a great vehicle to prove anything to anyone.

Now I can say I’m even proud of my front bumper, or rather, proud that I’ve kept it that way for two years. I know, a strange thing to be proud of, but it has really taught me a lot about myself and where I stand with how others perceive me (how others perceive the physical me as I age is for a whole other blog).

My front bumper has become a symbol of my stubbornness to move into a phase of life where I’m learning to focus on the truly important things—and I’ve concluded those things don’t involve image. Don’t get me wrong, I still dream of my brand-new SUV, a pair of Fluevog shoes, and the day that we can afford to replace those cloudy, failed windows in our house that look so bloody ugly. Some pieces are for me and some, for my image, but it’s a work in progress.

So, it’s my personal experiment to see just how long my endearing, exasperating front bumper will last until I cave—I mean, I do have a 20^th high school reunion coming up this summer and I’m only human. But, for now, I’ll leave it as is. I’m really okay with it and I don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks… okay, not really, but for now, that’s fine with me too.

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Have you had similar experiences with shame and image? Do you feel that bringing our uncomfortable emotions to light can be helpful? Has being concerned with how others perceive you caused issues in your life? How might this concern be helpful? Other thoughts? I’d love to hear your comments!