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Image courtesy of Morning theft (flickr); permission being requested.

Last month my husband and I set out on a two week road trip. Pacific Coast Highway, from L.A. to Seattle. It had been a dream of both of ours separately before we even knew one another, and it was really unbelievable to plan this trip together.

For such an all-American, iconic kind of trip, it won’t surprise any of you that when I called to reserve our rental car I specified not just any convertible to enjoy the scenic beaches and mountains—but a Mustang convertible. No, it might not be the most comfortable car, or even the car most associated with the Pacific Coast (though really, who would want to spend two weeks in a Woodie?) but for us a Mustang has that allure of carefree summers when you drove for the sake of driving and not to get anyplace anytime soon. I still, for whatever reason, think even a model that's only one day old is from 1966. You know, from back before gas was $3 a gallon and you worried so much about your carbon footprint.

I was led to believe this would be no problem whatsoever. So of course the rental car company ran out of Mustangs. They had one when our shuttle pulled up but the couple right in front of us upgraded at the last minute, snatching the last one up before we even knew what was happening. Remember the Seinfeld episode where Jerry doesn’t get the car he reserved and he questions why we make reservations in the first place if they can’t hold them? The conversation was like that, except not as funny and with the definite insinuation that our vacation was ruined. Dramatic, I’ll admit—but it was really heartbreaking for me. I shot dirty looks out the window at the couple driving away in our car, the one I reserved four months in advance but they got on a whim.

The good news is they had another convertible—the Chrysler Sebring! Yeah, it does nothing for me either, although it’s a fine car I can report after the fact. We pointed to our confirmation, right where it said "Mustang" and I asked in the most polite way possible if another location had a Mustang that we could pick up, or if there was anything else at all that could be done.

Exasperated and ready to rid her section of the counter of us, the rental car representative sighed deeply and delivered her judgment of me: “Ma’am you’re only making a choice because of the brand.” Silly me, and my silly ideas of what kind of car I prefer, based on something as nebulous and meaningless as brand.

Never have I wished for a copy of BrandSimple to be in my bag more than in that moment.

I could have explained to her yes, I understand that I’m making "just a brand choice." I know what a brand is. I know how they are made, and how they are broken. I could have explained that I work at a company that spends all day thinking about brands. And that actually, nearly every choice in our day is based on brand preference, or the avoidance of one, so she is not exempt from this process either. And even though I’m intelligent enough to accept that the Sebring might be better for a two week road trip in the end, and that my idea of a Mustang was created by some agency decades ago, emotionally, it was just what we had imagined when we planned the trip. This is exactly the kind of hold we want our client’s brands to have over their customers, no?

I said none of this. I was on vacation after all, and my poor husband didn’t need me getting up on my sassy horse so early in the day after a five hour flight. He wanted the car, and he wanted to get something to eat. I simply took the keys, thanked her, and told her I’d keep this little incident in my mind for the next time I make a brand choice when looking for a car rental company. I think I made my point.