Zach the Mechanic finally tolled the death knell for my ancient clunker. But I wasn’t as excited as I thought I would be at the thought of purchasing another car. No, I wouldn’t say “excited” was the word. “Horrified” was probably closer. Or perhaps “hysterical.” Yes, definitely hysterical.

It all started with another innocent trip to the auto repair shop, not exactly an out-of-the-ordinary experience for me. Operational brakes were only a memory, and I was pretty sure the three quarts of oil my car was sucking down each week wasn’t normal. So off it went for its bi-weekly repair date.

My mechanic called and said that yes, my brakes were pretty much non-existent, and yes, I was burning oil. The brakes were fixable, but I learned the oil situation wouldn’t improve. “Okay, I’ll stock up on oil,” I replied.

“That’s a good idea,” Zach said. “But you might want to think about getting a new car sometime. Preferably sometime soon.”

Yeah right, I thought. I just bought a house, which, come to find out, costs more to heat each month than a year’s tuition at the private college I attended. Oh, and I’m still paying off that college education. I’m certainly not acquiring more debt any time soon. Nope, I’m driving this thing into the ground.

Less than 24 hours later I shook a car salesman’s hand and drove away in my new car. What can I say? I’m fickle.

Actually, my thought process went something like this: Zach is getting steady infusions of cash through my frequent patronage, so he has nothing to gain from me buying a new car. On the contrary. So his only possible motive for suggesting that I get a new car is not wanting bodily harm to come to me because of a horribly deficient car. Um, I’d better get a new car.

Contrary to popular practice, I entered the testosterone-fueled car world without a male at my side. Well, technically, I guess my son is a male, and he did come with me. But you know what I mean. And I did womanhood proud. I walked up to the first car I saw; said, “Ooh, pretty”; and bought it. That was basically the extent of my research.

But to give credit where it’s due, I didn’t make the decision entirely by myself. While taking the car for a test drive, I asked my seven-year-old what he thought. “It’s cool,” he enthused. “Let’s get it.” And, thus, the decision was made.

Why did I leave the decision partially in the hands of a second grader? Well, he hasn’t steered me wrong so far. I used a similar method when I bought a laptop last year. I lined up seven models on the floor of Best Buy and told Jesse to choose one. He pointed out his favorite, I bought it, and it’s been a great computer.

Here’s hoping my slightly used car turns out to be a gem as well. But if not, I bought an extended warranty. I always thought extended warranties were a scam, so I opted not to buy one at first. The salesman suggested I think about it for a while. “If you have any mechanic friends, talk to them. I bet they’ll recommend that you get a warranty,” he said. 

I thought that was odd. If I had any mechanic friends, wouldn’t I just ask them to repair my car if the need arose instead of buying a warranty? But the next day I did talk to nearly everyone I knew about warranties, and there was a universal “buy it” vote. Now I’m kind of hoping something goes wrong with the car so I can get some mileage out of that thing.

And I kind of miss Zach. TPW