where's my Maserati?

I have a roomie.  Ed is back from college for a while before he heads on a cross-country adventure to learn about life (that's the free spirit goofball part of me) and earn no money towards next year (that's the grumpy cardigan wearing dad part).  So, since Ed needs a place to sleep,  I have been futon shopping. 

Futons are not shoes (yes, Captain Obvious lives here) and I can't see even Imelda Marcos having that much fun shopping for one.  When I saw a sign that read The Futon Shop I walked in, and ten minutes later I was getting out my VISA card.

Slight gulp moment, though.  Outlining my futon needs for the store guy, I found myself falling back on the car analogy.  I don't want bells, whistles and Italian styling, I said.  I want cheap and dependable -- the Toyota Corolla of futons.  I have used the same analogy when buying bikes, back packs, insurance, shoes (sorry, Imelda) and computers -- and it occurred to me, as Futon Guy nodded his understanding and pointed to their most durable cheap and best-selling model (which I bought) that I might be living a Toyota Corolla life. 

Gulp or what? 

Where do I spend happily?  Where do I care for more than function?  Where in my life do I want the Maserati version of whatever I am buying?  Not that there's anything wrong with a Corolla.  That's the whole point.  But still, gulp. 

I'm not upset that I don't own sports cars or first editions or 600.00 jeans -- but I am somewhat aghast that I don't seem to want any.