I chimed in helpfully. "I drove by the Jeep/Chrysler/Hummer dealer on 270 yesterday. It just made me sigh." Having grown up with an old-school Jeep Wagoneer, a Bronco II, a Jeep Cherokee, and a late 80s VW van, I'm an SUV girl through and through. I desperately wanted the almost practical H3 when we not-entirely-in-jest test drove it while I was pregnant with The Bean.
He responded with, well, the Cadillacs and Lincolns are really nice. He was not talking SUVs. He's a Big Sedan Man, all the way.
"You just want to be a limo driver," I teased.
"Funny you should say that," he said, and continued to tell me about how, when he hopped in his Über coming back from a birthday party at a club Friday night, he got into a lengthy conversation with his driver about how great a car the [insert Big-Sedan-Variety-I-Have-No-Clue-About here] is.
We are not at all in the market for a new car. We actually love both of ours, one an old Volvo sedan that we bought from Mom-Mom when she could no longer drive it (and consequently has a vanity plate with her name on it), the other a Mini Van we bought kicking and screaming but now adore not the least for it's ability to serve as an extended closet/storage area/attic-on-wheels to our storage-poor condo.
And yet, hearing the joy in his voice as he went on about the glories of the Big Sedan, I felt compelled to establish some boundaries.
"The only way we're going to have a big luxury sedan is if we also get a driver."
His wistful response: "Having a driver is really nice."
Because, my friends, how is an It Girl to wear her stillettos around DC if she doesn't have a driver to keep her from catching them in the cobblestone sidewalks?
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