We're car shopping. For the most part, I am holding it together.
I hate car shopping. Every car rides the same to me. I feel bad for the salesperson in the backseat, leaning forward to say, "You can really feel the difference in acceleration on this model," because no, no I can't. The acceleration on this car feels exactly the same as the acceleration on the other five cars I just drove, from the Kia to the BMW. No difference at all.
I'd prefer to test drive in anonymity. I don't want to be pandered or sold to. Just let me get in the car, take it around the block, and leave the lot to ponder my decision.
"I need to be famous," I told Blair as we drove to yet another dealership. "Famous enough so that I can have my people inform the dealership ahead of time that they are not to speak to Ms. Harris unless she speaks to them first."
"Or make eye contact," said Blair.
"Yes! No eye contact," I agreed. "And they can't stand too close to me."
"Grounds for termination," said Blair.
"Absolutely! They need to be told that if they make eye contact with Ms. Harris or in any way acknowledge that they are breathing the same air she breathes, Ms. Harris will immediately leave the lot and ask one of her people to see to it that their ass gets fired, pronto.'"
"That actually would be an improvement on what we're having to deal with now," said Blair. (We'd just returned from a not-so-fun visit to a Toyota Dealership.)
One more weekend of car shopping ought to do it. Then we'll make our final selection and I won't have to be on a car lot again for another ten years.
Ms. Harris has left the building...