I need a new car.
For clarity, you should know that in Lori-speak “new car” never means an automobile with less than 50 miles on it that is being sold in the year it was manufactured. Never.
Because amongst my charms is my cheapness.
I hate car shopping.
I detest it.
Despite being several degrees of longitude east AND west of svelte, I would rather buy a bikini.
My problems are thus: I’m never really willing to pay the amount that the car I want is, and when I get to the back-and-forth part between the sales guy and finance guy I want to chew the showroom’s all-weather carpet into little bits and force the fragments under my own fingernails because that will actually be a more pleasant experience.
I’ve realized that there are stages to dealing with buying a car. I went through them all this week.
Denial. I don’t need a new car. This car is fine. I like being adhered to the upholstery by stale ketchup and that grinding in the transmission only happens when I shift into gears one through five. Or reverse.
Anger. WHY ARE CARS SO &%$#ING EXPENSIVE??? I could feed a small far east country for a MONTH with this! This isn’t a car price, it’s the downpayment on a house in Cancun!
Bargaining. Can’t we get this price down a little more? How about if I dance? Or throw in a coffee maker? Or a kid? More cleavage?
Depression. I can’t do it. I can’t sit at that little table. Hair gel makes me break out in hives. Please don’t make me.
Acceptance. Fine. I’ll sign. I don’t care what the interest is. I don’t care what the payment is. I don’t care if I’m agreeing to shuttle the dealer’s mother-in-law to her monthly foot callous scraping. Just finish and be done with it.
But after all that, I did not get a new car this weekend.
Because there is still my charming cheapness to consider. And for all the shiny bumpers in the world I’m not letting go of that.