PCPSD

Yes, I’m suffering from PCPSD, or Post Car Purchase Stress Disorder.  This weekend, I bought a car.  Being a Honda-holic, at least the choice of which make to buy was non-threatening.  The dealer, model, and style choices were a whole ‘nother story.

I don’t really like cars that much.   I like that they get me from here to there and, hopefully, back again, and that they do it with minimal impact on my limited income and the environment.  Thus the Honda preference.  In spite of my own stupidity (pouring coolant into the oil fill hole, running over stuff in the dark, and driving with no oil, for example) my Honda’s have been ridiculously reliable since I first bought one in 1974.

Buying a car, new or used, has got to be the worst experience a human being can endure.  Can you imagine if you had to buy everything the same way?

Shopper: Excuse me, sir.  How much is this gallon of milk?
Dairy salesman: You’re in luck today!  That milk is on special at only 5.49!
Shopper: But your ad said it was 3.79.
Dairy salesman: That was for a particular gallon with a blue cap.  As luck would have it, that one sold just this morning.
Shopper: Do you have any milk at that price?
Dairy: I could probably get it down to 4.99, but I’ll have to talk to the dairy manager.  By the way, would you be interested in our sourness protection plan?
Shopper: Excuse me, I really need to lie down somewhere.  I don’t know how I’m going to face the deli next.

You get the idea.  Why does it have to always be the same old song and (tap) dance (on your head)?  Why must car dealers see everyone who walks through their big glass doors (festooned with balloons, of course) as a mark or sucker instead of a person?  We dealt with one young woman who seemed totally out of place.  She actually appeared to have a conscience.  Unless they successfully subdue it, I can’t imagine she’ll last long in the business with that handicap.

She didn’t fit amongst the crowd that included:

This guy

  • The big guy with the Bluetooth headset who passed us off to one of his minions because he was too busy.  By the earnest expression he wore, he appeared to be talking down a 747 that had lost its landing gear.
  • The perfectly coiffed sales manager with the power tie.
  • The eager kid in the thousand dollar suit who never took his eyes from my eyes (nor did he blink, as I recall), though his mind was obviously on my wallet.
  • All the men who spoke only to me as if my wife were elsewhere.

...and this guy.

Thankfully, I only buy a car once every 10-12 years, so I can rest easily between these episodes, just as I do between colonoscopies.  But those are far less painful.

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About rickconti

It's not about me, remember?
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