Last updated: August 23. 2013 11:03PM - 224 Views

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Iím a browser before Iím a buyer.

Thatís how I shop for everything. I like to just look, uninterrupted. I check out the price. Consider the color of whatever Iím looking at. Decide whether itís something that will fit in my life. If it passes all of my criteria, I buy it.

Regardless of the purchase, thatís how I roll.

But alas, that doesnít happen for me when cars are the needed purchase. Then I enter the only world my husband enjoys spending time. Thatís the world of negotiation. The world of give-and-take. The world of car shopping.

When we browse the lots together, I like to look at the cars on my own. I donít want a salesperson tagging along with me. And more importantly, I donít want my husband yammering in my ear something about mileage, or motor size, or ďextrasĒ that come as standard.

He might as well speak French.

I like to look in the windows and see if the interior is somewhere I can imagine myself spending hours of time. I love to drive, and I look for something that will brighten my mood. You know what I mean, there are certain colors in a car I would probably avoid and others Iím drawn towards.

I need to check out the dash and see if itís something that looks like I could handle it, or does it look like something that could land an airplane with all its bells and whistles.

Is the car a color I can live with? Will it be easy to find in a parking lot when I park at the mall and canít remember where that great space was I pulled into?

Is it a size I can maneuver well? I donít want too small and force these old bones to contort beyond what is humanly possible. Nor do I want it so large I canít turn at corners. All these things are real concerns for which I must account.

Next, I look at the price. If itís something out of the number I have in my head I move on. I never consider asking the salesman if we canít do better. Call me an idiot, but if the price is too outrageous, we can never do better enough to help me out.

My husband is my polar opposite when car shopping.

He reads the sticker on the window. Then he circles the car a few times waiting for the salesperson to magically appear. Once there, he discusses the finer points of the car and learns about the wonders under the hood. Within minutes, heís asking to take it for a spin.

Unlike me, he turns the radio down to hear the motor. I turn the radio up to hear the sound system. Trust me, I listen to that a lot more than I listen to the motor.

Once back on the lot, he pulls back. Thatís when he plays hard-to-get with the salesperson, who seems to know this dance.

Thereís a lot he doesnít like about the car. That price is high. The warranty doesnít cover all it needs to cover. Heís probably going to pass on it.

But he doesnít. We all see it coming. He did, I did, and the salesperson really did.

By the time we leave the lot, a new day has dawned. We know all the people in the dealership. Some of them we could probably claim on our taxes for next year heís gotten so close to them.

So hereís the rub.

My old, trusty car is randomly stopping. Sometimes in traffic, sometimes just after it started. My husband has taken it to a mechanic weíve trusted for years. We keep paying for the nickel and dime costs that are eating us alive.

Last winter I told him I couldnít face car shopping until spring. Last spring I thought the prices might be better towards the end of the year. My stalling canít go on much longer because the car has now taken on a life of its own and pretty much controls whether I drive each day by whether it chooses to start.

Iíve driven past car lots a few times as a warning that its replacement could be near.

Itís not something I look forward to doing, but Iím running out of options. Last week I agreed with my husband that I need a new car. Maybe itís something Iíll look into this spring.

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