I've always had an eye for a bargain. I prided myself on deep, prolonged research before making a major purchase because one, I liked the investigative process; and two, the payoff felt so good. A Spanish holiday, a home theater system, a vintage car; I'd look for a perfect balance of performance, price, and desirability. 

But as often and as well as I bargained my way into a good deal, I could bargain my way into a real stinker of a self-inflicted mess, too. But first, cars. 

“Bullitt” starring Steve McQueen is one of my favorite movies and is the reason I drive a Mustang today. When I lived in Ireland, new Mustangs weren't even available outside of the U.S. A vintage import was the only viable option, though examples that hadn't been ravaged by Irish weather were rare and beyond my budget. 

A 1967 GT350 in Highland Green was the ultimate dream... the iconic movie star dream. The prices were astronomical. So I ran my bargain filter... what's the next best thing down the ladder that would give me just as much pleasure?

Turns out Toyota were also fans of the Bullit-era Mustang. After months of research, I found a clean 1977 Toyota Celica 2000 Liftback in metallic green. They did an astonishing job of paying tribute to/ripping off the original, and I had to have it. I found one across the Irish Sea in Birmingham, England, and flew over to decide if I was going to buy it and proudly take it home on the ferry.

Even though I knew I would close the deal, given the months of research and the travel expense, I was still determined to bargain a couple of hundred off the $2500 asking price. That was a lot of money for me back in 2001. 

The owner, Tim, picked me up from the airport in the sparkling Celica. Car and owner were very alike. Both late '70s models. Both lovingly cared for their whole lives. Both had a faded brilliance on the outside, with a little rust underneath. 

I won't venture to visualize Tim's insides, but the Celica had a cracked but original cream leather interior, a wood veneer dash, and a throaty two-liter under the hood. 

Soon I was sitting across from Tim and his wife Helen in their cozy but fraying terraced house. It was clear from how close they sat that they cared for each other the same way Tim had cared for his Celica.

“Our son, he's a lovely lad, but he's not doing so well. He got married to a...” He trails off, his face flushed from holding in his hurt. 

He glances at Helen. She shakes her head “no”, then smiles at me. Tim takes a breath, considers his words. Politeness is a very British thing. 

“Our son's marriage didn't quite work. Now Jo... his wife... his ex-wife... well, she's demanding everything in the divorce,” he says to the eager Irish stranger across from him. “We're selling the Celica to pay his lawyer's fees.”

I studied Tim's face. Bright eyes, half-covered with sagging lids. Warm smile, corners dragged down by tired cheeks. 

“He's always been a good boy who makes poor choices,” says Helen. Her kind, blue eyes mist over as she stares lovingly at the gold-framed photo of her son on the wall.

She reaches for Tim's weathered hand. They interlock wrinkled fingers and hold on.

“So, will you buy it from us?” says Tim. It was more of a plea than a question.

Remember this moment: it's the moment where bargaining collides with reasoning, and we'll be coming back to it later. 

“I'll give it a good home,” I smiled, and handed over the check I had already filled out for the full $2500. Though I didn't push for a discount, it was still a bargain for my next-to-dream car.

But I couldn't bargain with Tim and Helen. It wouldn't have felt right. They'd bargained with life enough. They deserved a good deal. 

I drove away and watched them wave in the rearview. I left them with some cash to help their family out, but more than that, I left them with the dignity of not having to bargain to help out out their son. They had set their price, and I had respected it.

This story came to mind as I bargained with myself last night. A year ago I was sprawled on the couch, ill from various forms of inflammation, ill from the powerful drugs the doctors who thought only of symptoms and not causes prescribed, but most of all, I was ill from a feeling of powerlessness. 

That's a story for another day. But last May I found the help I needed, radically changed my diet, lost 35lbs, gained energy, enthusiasm, and clarity, and was feeling the best I had in years. I had trained myself to believe in the mantra of “food as medicine,” and for the last ten months I've been monitoring every bite of food I take. 

But last night I was tired and a little overwhelmed from the unrelenting pace of recent travel and exciting but escalating work commitments. It was approaching midnight, and I had a court appearance first thing the next morning. Nothing serious, just an arraignment hearing for a traffic ticket I had decided to contest, but I still needed sleep. 

Instead, I bargained with myself for a little extra wind-down time before the bed-prep ritual. I fired up the TV and ran a Key and Peele compilation, and instead of the carefully measured two rows of 90% cacao, stevia-sweetened dark chocolate I occasionally allow myself, I ate three times that. Plus, instead of a ¼ cup of pistachios, I had four times that. I blew my daily diet in a half hour. 

As I eventually prepped for bed, belly throbbing, I smiled with wry recognition at what had happened. In any learned behavior, there comes a moment when a decision must be made. 

Do I listen to the voice of what was, or to the voice of what I want to be?

It's a delicate dance of give and take, and what I have learned is that when I bargain with myself for a little more indulgence today, I can bargain for a lot more indulgence in a couple of weeks’ time. 

I know this pattern so well because I bargained with myself daily for twenty-four years over having just one more glass of wine before bed. Which is where we'll leave part 1 of Bargaining for today. 

Tomorrow: Bargaining, Part 2: Bargaining my way into sleeping on the floor.