Lessons on the road to the pickup of my dreams

How does one really come to know oneself, in a deep and meaningful way … asks the shallowest person in the newspaper industry: me.

The answer is that to truly come to know oneself, one must go shopping … says the intellectual-surface-dweller who hates shopping more than dental work, cleaning house and canned spinach — all combined.

This newfound wisdom comes from recent forays into the world of pickup truck shopping. Yes, know thy shopping needs, know thyself.

The shopping started with the vague notion that we need to replace our aging and ailing pickup, plus the misguided idea that our requirements are flexible, and topped with the grand illusion that the right pickup is out there waiting for my husband and me to stumble across it. As if the universe were sprinkling a trail of invisible pixie dust, like bread crumbs, leading us to the perfect pickup that is our destiny.

• Goldilocks was right, size matters. John and I have always been in disagreement on size. I always wanted, and expected, to grow to 5 feet, 10 inches in height, but fell short at 5 feet, 8 inches — just shy of average height for women in my family. John always wanted to be shorter than 5 feet 10 inches, 5-8 preferably, because little guys make the best bronc riders and motorcross racers.

I like to have room to move around and power to spare — it’s a tall family thing. He likes little cars, and legend has it his family once took a road trip, with 10 extra kids and a fully loaded, steel stock trailer, with only a little Mazda pickup. Or something like that.

But after driving a ¾-ton and a “light” ½-ton pickup during the same week, we came to a full agreement that the one was too large, the other too small, but a full-size ½-ton beefed up for towing would be juuuust right. That narrows the field.

• Looks matter. We can cross out all the dark-colored pickups. They’re basically just motorized, solar-powered, Easy Bake Ovens that need to be washed constantly. Nobody needs that.

• But then again, looks actually don’t matter. And this is where we get a little weird because we really don’t care if the pickup shows a little normal use. We looked at a 2008 pickup that looked like it had been driven off the show room floor. I expected to be bowled over by that new-car smell when the door opened. They wanted extra for the pickup because it was like-new. I almost went for the hypnotizingly shiny bauble, then realized: What? I’m not going to pay more just to feel more awful that moment when one of us puts that first mark — or dent — on the thing. I'm buying something pre-boo-booed, so I don’t ruin my week after I drop something on a previously perfect fender.

• I’m willing to insult strangers for the right amount of money. Yes, I offered the guy with the pretty pickup much less than his asking price. What do I care if it insults him, I said. We aren’t buddies, or acquaintances or even fellow townsmen. He’ll accept it, or not; either way, I'm good with it.

• Nope, I guess I lied. I felt bad about insulting the guy and that drove me to use a classic relationship break-up cliché to make him feel better. “No, no, I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s me and not your pickup. I just don’t have the same priorities. It’s a beautiful pickup, in great condition, so I’m sure you’ll find the right buyer soon and they’ll be overjoyed at their find. The pickup will be better off without me.”

• In case miracles don’t happen, have a backup plan. After this first frenzy of shopping, we are taking a week — or eight — off to recuperate.

Maybe the used car fairy will use some of that pixie dust to bring us together with the right pickup to love and cherish for the next 15 years, but just in case I don’t believe enough to make the pixie dust idea fly, I put two salesmen to the task of finding us the perfect rig. It’s a glorious relief to have personal shoppers working to solve my shopping problem — this I know.

(Pixie dust and a personal shopper could fix a lot of things around here at [email protected].)