C. T. Suddeth

In 1991 Suzanne, my wife, ordered me to buy a new car (my car was for trips, her rules). She warned me not get a red car—cops loved to pull them over. I went to the dealer and saw a new, dark red Escort. God help me—I bought it.

Expecting to have my ears burned, I drove the car home. She stared at it and said, “Give me the keys.” She drove it around the block and handed me her car keys, “I’m keeping this car.”

I wanted to remind her it was red but knew better. She drove automatics, but this was a 5-speed. And it had racing stripes and fake air foil—things she hated.

The next day, we went back to the dealer and bought me a new car. Boring blue but one happy salesman.