A few years ago I was in an auto showroom, looking at an immense vehicle that could clear a snowbank three feet high. If the salesman had patted the side and said “Now what’s it going to take to get you into this car?” I’d have said “A ladder.”
I didn’t need that much car. I didn’t need any car, since I was still enjoying my vehicle — but sometimes you are drawn to a showroom like a man contemplating an affair. You’ll stay faithful, but what’s the harm in flirting?
Then one day you get out the title for your …
This article appears as “Auto Ennui” in the June 24, 2019, print edition of National Review.