The husband has been drooling over a Harley. A friend of a friend is selling it dirt cheap and plus, says the husband, it’s got like, $5000 worth of chrome on it! Which, apparently, makes the asking price a fantastic deal. So we have to buy it now, he says. Deals like this don’t happen every day, he says.
“But,” I argued, “do you really need all that chrome? I mean, without the chrome it’s really just a fair price, rather than a fantastic steal, right?”
He maintained it was a fantastic price. I tried another tactic.
“But won’t all that chrome get hot? You know, like, in the desert sun?”
To which he said that the parts of the bike you chrome aren’t usually the parts you would be touching, so it doesn’t matter if they get hot.
The husband’s next move when he wants to convince me to let him buy something is to enlist help. (This is how we ended up with a 2001 Mustang Bullitt with a V8 engine and special tailpipe noises, instead of, say, a Honda Accord. So there is a precedent for the success of this tactic.) He finds every friend, co-worker, and acquaintance within a 500 mile radius and brings them over to his side.
I was ambushed when I walked in to the office this morning.
“So,” one of my co-workers said to me, “you going to let Chris get a bike?” I rolled my eyes. “You should get it now, before you have kids and stuff,” another one chimed in. “I mean, it’s highly frowned upon for pregnant ladies to ride motorcycles.”
“Well that doesn’t seem like a very sound investment,” I replied, “only a few years before we can’t ride the bike anymore then!”
“Oh I can still ride it,” my lovely husband jokes, “you just can’t.”
