When the trust is gone

My other half knows not to take me car shopping on a hot day or when it's raining - or when I'm tired, or if I have anything else to do. The prospect of a new car dangling at the other end of all that agony isn't even enough to move me.

Even the thought of repeating our hunt for a car for me from eight years ago must have sent electric shocks through my other half's body. For me, cars are tools to be used. To be used, they have to work. Whatever parts they have, like electric windows, have to work or give me the crank kind. These metal and plastic money-munching cars come in sizes and colors.

My other half reads Auto Week magazine from cover to cover. Weekly. He would love to collect cars and have one for each day of the week and two for Saturdays. He has a pickup because it is practical, but his dreams are of low, sleek and fast.

I liked my car. It was red and zippy. But lately, things had started to fail, and it had become "untrustworthy." That was a death knell for my other half who likes predictability in things like cars.

So this time, he said, "I'm selling your car. If you want any input on what you drive, I am leaving in 30 minutes."

He also knows better than to ask inane questions like, "What kind of car do you want?" Instead, he couched it in the softer, "What is most important for you?"

"Color," I said without thought. "The color of stone dust." My poor red car was always dirty. We live on an unpaved road and have an unpaved driveway, so the car was either splashed with stone dust or created clouds of it every time I drove it.

"And I want to sit up high," I added. So he set off alone to find a car in our price range the color of stone dust that sat up high. When he was successful, he came home and got me.

On our way over to the dealership, I told him the car in front of us was good looking. He said it was a minivan. We were looking at small SUVs. So I bucked up and asked him how I would tell the difference. Halfway through the explanation, I cut him off and said, "Never mind." He was talking about the chassis, yawn.

Once we got to the lot, I asked about three different cars, "Is that the one?" Finally, my other half said the salesman would bring it up for me to look at. It was hot out. I'll hoe the garden in the heat but toss in all that asphalt and rows of cars that look alike, and I respectfully decline.

The bargaining phase was relatively painless - it is a buyer's market. It took four hours and 15 minutes. I guess I can manage if we only do it every eight years.