That’s the crux of it: Salesmen (usually men) who make women feel “inconsequential.” My husband’s favorite salesman (we laugh about this, actually — he still buys from him, and I shop for any other brand at any other dealership) once asked me, after my husband introduced us and told him I was shopping for a car, if my husband needed to be there “to approve the deal.” I spent the next two hours throwing lowball offers at him and basically wasting his time.

Next time my husband when there to buy a car, the salesman was an African-American woman. She asked what I thought of the car. I shrugged. I wouldn’t be driving in it, but I’d be riding around in it. I sat in all the seats like Goldilocks trying porridge. I complained, as usual, about the too-far-forward tilt of this brand’s headrests. I could live with it, I said, getting out of the car with a distinct lack of interest. I knew this would end up being my husband’s car, and that was fine as long as he loved it. The saleswoman had me wait a moment while she popped out the headrest and rotated it 180-degrees. Had me sit back down. Ahhhh, so much better! Why had no one ever thought of this before? I later said to my husband that if his usual salesman had been that smart, I might be driving that brand of car today. He laughed. “You know who that woman is?”

“No.”

“That’s his wife.” Well, she’s smart about cars, anyway.