Yesterday, I believe I utterly cemented myself as a liberal. And perhaps more importantly, as an adult.
I bought my first car. A dark red (I refuse to say ‘maroon’) Subaru Outback.
What was adult wasn’t necessarily the writing of the check, the shaking of hands, etc. It was the haggling. Mom and Dad informed me on the way to the lot that haggling was normal when negotiating used car purchases. My throat felt dry all of a sudden. As much as I appreciate a good argument, mine have been restricted to classrooms as of late. Don’t get me started on Virginia Woolf, but when it comes to the value of automobiles, I hardly know what to say.
Of course, the very first place we looked had a Subaru. Of course, it was far out of my budget. And of course, when I suggested a lower price, the manager came out of his office and tried to bully me about it. Maybe he could tell that I’m young and inexperienced and decided I would be easy to intimidate, but the more he rattled on about how he has to make a profit (how dare I mess with that!) and how much mechanical work he’d put into the car and how–good Lord–could I think of turning down the three-month warranty, the angrier I became.
And when he handed the list of work done to the car to Dad and not to me–“I’m sure he knows more about this than you”–I had had enough.
I told him we would keep looking.
At the next lot, we spotted an Outback right away. It was a little older than the last, but the price was right. I test drove it twice, heard lengthy descriptions from the salesman, and read over its history. And then I signed the papers and agreed to come back with a check.
I’ve got my Monroe Crossing “I’m a Bluegrass Fan” sticker all ready to apply to the bumper.