We went car shopping today. In a laxidasical, half-hearted way. We really do need a second car–we’ve been getting along fine for all these years with just one, but recently we’ve had a few too many times when half the family needed to dance attendance to a particular event while the other half the family needed to simultaneously be on the opposite side of the known world. Plus, our current car keeps breaking down, and can’t be trusted to show up for work.
So, we went looking. And I chatted with a salesman…and told him that the only difference between his glossy cars and other non-salesman sold cars was price. He didn’t like that, but at least he let us off the lot without our needing to pull out my flashier punches and kicks.
I thought it all went pretty well, but my husband is confused on one small point. He’d like to know if next time we’re going to look for cars…or trouble.
