“We see this in the elderly,” he says, working intently on his paperwork. He’s 25, maybe 27.
Excuse me?
“The elderly. They don’t drive their cars enough. So the battery is compromised.”
I know it’s early. I know I need coffee. I know even Christian Dior didn’t help much this particular morning.
Do I look that bad? I ask, with a purposely irritated tone.
I catch him off guard. He finally focuses on my face, then catches a bit of inevitable cleavage and flushes. “Oh… n-no… I didn’t mean… Um, you’re not old.”
Ohmygod, he’s young, I think. And he sure has a lot to learn about women.
I’ve just handed over my license and insurance card. He’s completing papers for a loaner to use while they diagnose my car. The battery that keeps crapping out. That’s crapped out for four months since the last time they said they fixed it. And I know they’re trying to avoid replacing an expensive part, covered under warranty.
So what did you mean? I ask, leaning forward, and knowing full well he can’t tell if I’m insulted or amused.
That older woman-younger man thing? The cougar? This is why I couldn’t do it. The inexperience with life in general. The naive remarks. Still, I let my mind drift, just a little. Taking in the smooth surfaces of his skin, the full lips, the dark eyes, now so earnest. He’s tall, and his shoulders are broad though his frame is thin.
“The elderly don’t take their cars out much,” he says. “Batteries need to be used in order to work. You haven’t put many miles on your car since you were last here.”
But who wants to take the vehicle for a spin if you’re afraid it will crap out and you’ll be stranded?
He’s lovely to look at. But for now, I need to leave the feminine vehicle out of the equation.
I’ve been buying cars here for 20 years, I say. I’ve never had a problem previously, and my driving habits haven’t changed.
I go on to recount the exact set of circumstances that brought me into the dealership last summer. How the problem recurred only weeks after that, and has continued to recur since. I add that one teenage driver using the car while home from college makes up for any lack of middle-aged mileage – not elderly, mind you – that he might be attempting to blame as the cause.
Twenty minutes later, I’m on the highway, headed home in a nifty loaner. There’s nothing quite like that new car smell… I was assured my not quite 3-year old sedan would be kept until midweek, thoroughly checked out, and properly repaired.
“And we’ll wash it,” the young man says, as he opens the car door for this elderly woman.
I crank up the music as loud as I can, and put the pedal to the metal.
Carol says
I think you’re not there yet, but wait until you start hearing those “well, as you get older. . . ” words to explain nearly everything that you might question – as you get older. It’s like “do I need to be reminded that I’m no longer young this often?”
Hopefully they really will get your car fixed this trip. Hate mechanical things that argue.
BigLittleWolf says
Interesting, Carol… Is that sort of like the assumption from physicians that if you’re female, of a certain age, and on your own, that any physical symptom can be cured with an anti-depressant? 🙂
Yeah, life is ever entertaining. Then there’s the “you look good… for your age” remark. (And here’s hoping the car “fix” actually stays fixed this time.)
Contemporary Troubadour says
Oh my. I hope that guy learned something that morning about how to talk to his customers, whatever their age! And I hope the car comes back with definitive answers and repairs. I understand your reluctance to drive it if it craps out at the drop of a hat! Oy.
Gale says
At least you got a sweet loaner out of the deal. And you probably got in that guy’s head for the rest of the day! 🙂
BigLittleWolf says
Still loving that loaner! You’re right!
Rudri says
BLW, hope they figure out what is wrong with your car. In the meantime, enjoy the loaner.