The wind-up, the sales pitch

At the end of our last dance lesson last week, we were informed that someone from the studio would talk to us about possibly continuing our lessons. We suspected that "talking to us" would involve persuasive arguments about the stupidity of NOT continuing.


"They'll probably take us into that little room," the Hero said.


Earlier we had seen a couple in that little room, which was notable because unlike the other little rooms in the studio, it had furniture to sit on. It looked to be a very comfortable room, in fact, with leather chairs and a lovely wooden table and desk. We had watched as the couple came out of the room, hugging.


"They look like they've been to couples therapy," I said at the time.


So when Brandon, our instructor, told us that someone would be talking with us about our "options," we were not surprised to be ushered into the little room.


Now, the Hero comes from a long line of skilled negotiators, buyers, and sellers. There is no danger, for example, of any of his immediate relatives being forced into buying a time share. Were they to attend one of those high-pressure "We won't pressure you to buy anything" sessions, the salespersons would inevitably find themselves agreeing to purchase something from the relatives rather than the other way around.


I, in contrast, come from a long line of wimps who can't bear to disappoint other people. This sometimes results in our ending up with items that, without having been pressured into buying them, we would never even have considered. For example, my family returned from a trip to Greece many years ago with a large, expensive urn depicting numerous gods and goddesses, all aiming sharply pointed implements at each other threateningly. Everyone from the workers at the shop where it was made to the shop owner to the taxi driver who took us to the shop -- ignoring our strong protestations that we did not want to go -- insisted we buy the urn. My parents still have it, because, as my mother says, "I would feel bad getting rid of it." 


Only in the matter of Girl Scout cookies does the Hero show a greater propensity to cave to sales pressure than I do.


I figured that with the Hero's heritage of not being easily strong-armed into purchasing things, we would be pretty safe from any attempts on the part of the dance studio person to talk us into additional, costly lessons. I thought it best to say as little as possible, and never "Yes." Because if it had been up to me, things might have gone very differently at our meeting in the little room:


Studio person: "So, we have a fantastic deal for you guys -- the 10-10 package, 10 private lessons and 10 group lessons, for only $5,473."


Me, nodding enthusiastically: "Sounds great! Where do we sign up?"


Hero: "Are you crazy??"


Studio person: "Okay, so maybe you're not quite ready for that kind of commitment. No problem! We also have the 6-6 package for just $3,286."


Me: "Oh, that sounds very reasonable."


Hero: "You ARE crazy."


Studio person: Ahh, I can tell that YOU are a couple who likes to make your own rules. So, for you, we have the put-together-your-own-package. You can come to as many or as few lessons as you like, and for each lesson you pay just the same amount as you pay every month toward your mortgage...."


Me: "Hmm, are you -- well, are you sure you're charging enough for that package? I really think you could get people to pay even -- hey, honey, why are you pushing me out the door?...Wha-- hey! Let me back in there! I just want to help him have a good day. You be nice to him, honey!"


Fortunately, when the studio person started drawing little arcs and incomprehensible marks on paper to illustrate how participants progressed from the routine newcomers' lessons to more demanding yet expressive ones, presumably in an effort to impress us and get us to say "YES! We want to be on the other end of that arc!" I cleverly pretended to really, really need a Kleenex that was somewhere in my purse.


In the end, of course, we said that we would sleep on the decision to continue, which the studio person correctly interpreted as "No, we are definitely not going to take further lessons, unless we get another Groupon in which you pay us to take them." He and the Hero even struck a deal whereby the studio would not call us to ask whether we had changed our minds.


And the other end of the deal? I'm not sure, but I think it had something to do with Girl Scout cookies...