I walked into the Toytota dealership with my mind bent to a single purpose: purchasing a Manual Yaris Sedan. I had my checkbook in hand, I’d transferred the down payment to my BoA account. I was lean, mean, and ready for business.

“Manual, huh?” the salesman’s grin faltered as he searched his database.

“Manual,” I affirmed.

He showed me an automatic sedan, I test-drove a manual coupe. But neither was what I wanted. I need a stick, and I need a trunk. After being broken into in NYC, I’ve come to appreciate the value of a separate storage compartment. Plus, you know, I might want to have a baby at some point before my payments are up, and the prospect of wrestling around reclinable front seats doesn’t interest me in the slightest. Plus, the stick coupe was this awful shade of maroon. Euch.

“Look,” I said, uncharacteristically bold, “if you can get me the car that I want, at the price that I want, I’ll buy it right now. If not, no deal.”

He bowed out, consulted with his manager, and returned beaming. “We have a Yaris in Watertown. Power everything, stick, four doors. We can come down two grand.”

Somehow, I wasn’t sold. I sat in my seat, wavering somewhere between a yes and a maybe.

“It’s black.”

Oh hey now. Hey hey hey now.

“Done.” I said, rising to shake his well-manicured hand.

And that’s how I bought my Yaris. In the end, despite my best intentions, it all came down to fashion.