Normally, I love my 911 Porsche convertible. I like to drop the top, cruise to all the fancy neighborhoods in NorCal and imagine people’s jaws dropping as my sexy self, in sleek sunhat and black dress, rolls by rockin out to my favorite tunes. In my mind, the car shows I have made it. It shows I am wealthy and sexy, chic and sleek. It is the ultimate accessory to the successful, vibrant 30-something Alana I like to imagine myself to be myself to be. Except…

The time for the 2017 KPY retreat rolled around and suddenly I realized, with deep embarrassment, I was going to have to drive the Porsche up to the mountain. You see, sleek sexy Alana got rid of her other car so if I wanted to go on retreat, the Porsche was my only ride. Suddenly I felt self conscious. Typically I fantasize the looks I get in the car to be nods of approval, but when I thought about driving up to a Buddhist retreat in something so flashy, ugh suddenly the looks I imagined were of disgust and judgment. I mean really, isn’t it inappropriate? We are all here to contemplate on escaping worldly attachment and I am showing-off my great worldly status and attainment.

The truth is, there are plenty of times I feel self conscious in my car.  I drive through bad neighborhoods quickly, slumping in my seat, praying the gas gauge doesn’t force me to stop in the Tenderloin for gas. I duck into my car after work events hoping donors don’t see me getting into something so expensive lest they think my nonprofit is squandering their donations with fat employee paychecks. I park around the corner when my family comes to town since I don’t want anyone getting any ideas that I am the rich family member they should be asking for financial help. But, once each situation passes, I quickly forget about it. I go back to believing the car does for me exactly what I want it to do — being the perfect accessory for the Barbie fantasy life I am playing-out in my head.

But if I can’t even get my toys to tell me a consistent story all the time, isn’t it evidence that maybe my story isn’t completely correct? I am so easily lulled by my own fairy tales I ignore the Grimm side at my own peril. My wants for fancy cars and outfits and accessories will be as endless as the ability of my imagination to come-up with ever evolving stories for Alana, this lifetime’s star character. But, there is clearly a dark behind the scenes part of this plot filled with embarrassment and danger and the costs and work of acquiring all the  props I need to tell my tales. It is time to stop forgetting and ignoring so that at least this storyteller can tell a more complete and realistic tale.