Ever been shopping for a car with a 15-year-old girl?
Let’s just say there’s a reason buying shoes doesn’t require credit checks, 28-page contracts and extended warranties.
With shoes, we women would never let a salesperson intimidate us into an add-on we didn’t need.
“A rhinestone starburst on a faux crocodile wedge? I don’t THINK so, Mister Man. But I will take the matching croc clutch and the 30,000-step or three-month heel retread. I am heck on a pair of heels.”
No offense to any of you car dealers out there but I eased my daughter into the whole high-pressure world of car sales by shopping in ski masks and black turtle necks at 2 a.m. when I thought no one would jump out at us and say “So what could I put you little ladies behind the wheel of today?”
Unlike some of Shannon’s friends, we are shopping for a “preowned” model, which back when I was 16 meant “done been drove by somebody else” — and in our case “done been drove a lot.”
I can’t afford to be pressured into even one add-on more than we need, meaning anything other than windshield wipers, and I’m not even sure she needs those. Hey, she can reach her hand out the window and wipe off a spot.
On our very first stealth night out, Shannon saw a car and fell in lu-u-u-uv.
It was like a sexy summer sandal, low-slung and shiny white, glistening in the car lot lights.
It also happened to be right in our price range, having been drove a lot.
“No,” I said emphatically. “Too small. Too sporty. Too dangerous.”
“But Mo-o-o-m. It’s so cute!”
It was cute. Even I’d admit that. Two seats. Two doors … if you didn’t count the suicide door. SUICIDE door!
It was small enough to fit under an 18-wheeler. Probably small enough to fit in a shoe box, if it came to that.
The next day, we still were arguing.
“It’s not safe enough.”
“Fine,” Shannon said. “I’ll look up the safety rating.”
“Fine.”
I’d forgotten about the car when I arrived home from a long, busy day at work and collapsed in my favorite chair. Shannon sat across from me on the sofa.
“Mom,” she said. “I looked up the car’s safety rating. You were right.”
Suddenly the room grew bright and infused with light. All sound seemed far away.
Was this my house? Was this my daughter?
My world suddenly was altered.
When my heart rate and surroundings returned to normal, when the white light faded and I realized I wasn’t actually DEAD, I asked Shannon to repeat what she’d just said, especially those last three words.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Not THOSE three.
It seemed I was destined to hear them just that one time. It would have to be enough.
But we still have a problem. We haven’t found a car I can afford that is safe enough for her to drive.
We’ll be shopping again this weekend, in stealth mode until I get a better idea of what we can afford.
Then I get the fun of finding out how much my insurance is going to increase.
Anyone looking to hire a soon-to-be 16-year-old?
Sure, she needs an oil change from time to time, and an attitude adjustment every now and again, but she’s really responsible.
I’ll throw in a 30-minute warranty.
Well?
That’s the longest I’ve ever seen her work at one time.
