I decided to trade in my husband at the used car dealership downtown.
The salesman said, “We only accept cars here.”
I shrugged. “Kick his feet; he still has unusually high arches. And at fifty, he’s got several more decades left on the odometer. Long life runs in his family.”
He lifted up my husband’s right arm, then the left. Next, he peeked under the hood.
“Why are you trading him in? Seems in fine shape for fifty.”
I walked in a circle around my husband, as if inspecting for dents or bruises that might have been missed. Then I pointed to the sleek two-door silver sports car with a racing stripe parked in the front section of the lot.
“He’s reliable, but more sedan-like. Not a great conversationalist as you can see. I’m hunting for a faster and more exciting model at this point in my life.”
The salesman rubbed two fingers along my husband’s shiny head. “Bald though.”
“Think convertible. Sedan with the top gone. Some women like that.”
He nodded, then cut me a check—much lower than expected. But what choice did I have? No category even existed in the Blue Book for used husbands.
