I'm Too Sexy For Your Lexus

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I'm Too Sexy For Your Lexus
by Bonnie Biv	November 17, 12:42 a.m.

or, Why a clash between status-symbolism and financial sensibility has rendered me mortally incapable of buying a new vehicle.

My car is a Piece of Crap. A young Piece of Crap bearing fewer than 50,000 miles, but a Piece of Crap nonetheless.

According to "middle-class standards," that is.

I paid sticker for it in 2002, when the third-row seat held luxurious appeal for the budding mom in me. Truth be told, however, that seat was always butt-free. Instead of chauffeuring neighbors' sweaty booger-eaters home from soccer, I used it to smuggle stuff under my husband's nose. Colorful shrubberies, plush spa towels, small appliances that I would never actually touch—typical junk that stimulates a card-carrying Nester. (Men, if you are not quietly aware of this trite trick, clue in: all wives do it. And. Never. Once. Did I personally get away with it.)

For these reasons and more, my compact SUV (read: station wagon) personified young suburburban chic. I happily piled pals of every financial rank into its first two rows of cloth seats and cranked Dave Matthews on the shitty factory speakers.

Back then I considered $28,000 a groundbreaking amount to spend on a mere vehicle. I was proud, despite the cash I burned on gap loss. I mean, Thirty Thousand Dollars, people! That was a fifth of my starter-home’s taxable value. Over a third of my annual income. A $600 bill that hemorrhaged straight from my Dillards budget into the bank’s fat 9% note.

And I afforded that, all by my-damn-self. You go, upwardly-mobile Bonnie girl! I didn’t even need the anemic $2,000 rebate for accepting the ugly off-the-lot pearl color. (Oh but I demanded it. You bet your ass I demanded it. I knew I would be encased in that hideous complexion-warping color for years. Sadly, I’m an instant-gratification kind of gal.)

Alas, my bout of new-car glee would not last. It was hacked to death by 80s-esque brand discrimination.

Sure, I was slightly aware that my peers – from my CEO to my manicurist – showed off pricier cars. Even their homely minivans were upscale. But it took me a while to grasp that they were as keen on appraising my modest asset. As I drove my spunky ride to the office, to the salon, to exotic far-east lunches at Pei Wei, I was met with disdain. “You? Drive? a Suzuki?” [Pan-in on faint lip-curl of revulsion.] My vapid pals instantly detected my faux-pas with their Spidey Label Senses.

O, pitiful irony! I would be willing to bet my car’s remaining <$8,000 Blue Book that at least nine out of ten Joneses bought their upmarket autos on credit.

That’s not financial fortitude, dear readers. That’s anal leakage. Take my $28,000 purchase as a blushing low-end example. At 9% interest I would have spent about $7,000 extra over the loan’s life had I not paid it off early. And don’t even get me started on leasing—the choice of self-indulgent chumps (biz tax bennies notwithstanding).

The fact of the matter is, only working-rich status-tramps buy BMWs on credit. That’s why I chuckle when I see other moms smugly park their gleaming rides at my kids’ schools. Duh.

I refuse to be one of those suckers. As I told a seemingly secure friend the other day, I will never buy another car with debt. (I think it’s rather telling of American mentality that she raised an eyebrow and responded, “How is that even possible?”)

And therein lies my dilemma.

My unpretentious Piece of Crap now makes a loud, hoarse rattle that the local grease-monkeys profess not to hear. It has gained its share of nicks and dings—mostly from my retarded parking skills. It has also absorbed an array of interesting scents from kids, snacks, juices, plants, various Yankee air fresheners, and that one night in the pasture. Even if things don’t start falling off in the coming years, it grows ever more embarrassing to drive through Manicured Lawnville.

So what is a middle-class downshifter to do? Do I give weight to the prevailing opinions of society and burn $70,000 savings on a rapidly-depreciating car that announces my credibility on their terms? Cough, even though I am keenly aware that society are saps of strategic marketing? Cough hack, even though I would personally appreciate only the seat-warmers? Cough hack wheeze, even though I could spend that extra $40,000 on Four. Different. Overseas. Vacations?! Or, do I go against the imprudent grain and pay a practical price, in cash, for a Honda that implies mediocrity?

I’ll tell you what I do. I embrace my inner rebel. In my own socially sinister tradition of duping Handbag Harlots with a random fake for sport, I shall consciously deceive my tiny universe.

I have not yet decided how to do it, but I will score one in my private war against Conspicuous Consumption, oh yes. Maybe I’ll personify a pauper in my stinky Suzuki until it dies an honorable Japanese death. Or maybe I’ll select the most unconventionally toned $60,000 truck from Southern Motor Company, which no Donna Karan-donning diva would recognize for its true fabulousness—or its price.

Either way, I cannot, and will not, bow to the German-made Idols of Greed. Aside from my economic rationale and marketing wisdom, I happen to know that Deustch engineers only begrudgingly design-in cup holders.

A girl's gotta have her priorities.

And Now, A Word From My Affiliate

Readers Bite Back (Sink Teeth Here)

No responses worth repeating. Yet.
But I wait with bated breath.

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