I had to look at new cars last week. I therefore had to talk with people who really really wanted to sell me one.
Which is difficult because I really really don't like being sold to. Very few people can sell me things without tripping my BS detector. That's why I shop online so much. For the most part, in real life I have learned to shop and buy things and make small talk with sales people and just accept that we all know what we're doing there. They're selling. I'm buying.
But people who sell big-ticket items are different. They're harder for me to interact with. Of course they need to know what I'm looking for. That's a legitimate question to ask, perfectly fair information to elicit. No point in showing me an SUV, for example, because I'm slightly obsessed with fuel efficiency. I get that part.
But please don't pretend we're friends. Even if you're a woman. Even if you're a Canadian woman trying to sell me a car I am actually interested in. Don't pretend that you and I are exactly alike just because we both have ovaries and therefore must share some set of values you imagine me to aspire to. I will, and did, leave the lot without driving the car.
I can't pinpoint what she did, either. She didn't wink at me, though I felt as if she had. So I can't even help her back off. I just know I didn't want to buy a car from her.
I'm surprised, actually. I expected car salespeople in Canada to be different from those in the U.S. Perhaps they are; I haven't bought a car since about 1997 and that process consisted of walking onto a lot and saying, "I want a used Camry." (There was some negotiation about price. I'm not a total rube.)
So maybe U.S. sales folk are more egregious than I remember and this woman was mild in comparison. Regardless, there is a line between "friendly sales rep" and "overly familiar schmooze," and she crossed the line. Fortunately, I kept myself from rolling my eyes in front of her.
Truthfully, I'm not in the market for a new car. I just wanted to know what I would want to buy if I were suddenly forced to buy a new-to-me car. So it wasn't actually her too-familiar nudge-nudge that kept me from driving. But it didn't help.
Car shopping reminded me of something else about boundaries and borders. When I was a kid and we drove from Oklahoma to Thunder Bay every summer, crossing state lines was a big deal. It meant we were that much farther away from the oppressive heat and that much closer to heaven. We watched for landmarks like the first birch tree.
One year, I fell asleep somewhere in Iowa. I woke to cornfields stretching from horizon to horizon. My mother insisted that we really were in Minnesota, though it looked just like Iowa to me. It was the first time I realized that states had different kinds of terrain--Minnesota wasn't all evergreen/birch forest east-west-north-south.
It's that in-between state of being that still trips me up: between Minnesota-as-I-imagine-it and Minnesota-in-its-variety, between helpful-and-friendly and back-off-you're-trying-too-hard, between lots of things. Between winter and spring. Between "yes I need a new-to-me car" and "no I do not need a new-to-me car."
So until I can figure out where some of those lines actually are, I'll have to be like the deer are in the yard: just nibbling a bit while passing through. No thanks; just looking, but I'll take your card and call you if I change my mind. Sure I will.
