I pull over onto a grassy shoulder, grab my license out of my wallet and roll my window down. I don't see him, maybe he decided he had more important things to do like, you know, go after real criminals? Then there is a knock on the passenger window, crap, there he is. I roll that window down, after hitting door unlock, like three times and the sunroof opener once.
He bends down and sticks his head in, "May I see your license please?"
I hand it over.
"Do you still live at this address"
"Well no, see I moved last week and.."
"It should come up, I'll be right back. Please stay in your vehicle."
Okay, here's the thing; ever since I saw "Midnight Express" in college, I am petrified of going to jail. There are two things I remember from my college years, the Mexican casserole they served on Wednesdays and Brad Davis wasting away in a Turkish prison. I see myself in the jail on Gulf to Bay, in dirty ripped jail clothes, sweaty, eating beans from a tray with a spork, and all bloated from not pooping in months. This of course all takes place after my strip search. I am panic stricken.
I know for sure that: 1. I have an outstanding parking ticket, from when I went to lunch with a friend and decided I had to stay for dessert and, 2. My car registration is on my nightstand where I left it, after calling Geico and begging for a cheaper rate. Prison for sure.
He makes his way back to the "Vehicle" (you know what that word means when a cop says it,) and I am prepared for him to pull me from the car, throw me up against it and start patting me down looking for weapons. I am thinking my one phone call will be to my mother, but I can't remember if this is her yoga day. This is the ONE time a husband would come in handy.
The sweat is rolling down my back when he sticks his head back in, hands me my license and says, "Just a warning this time, but slow down. Be careful merging back into traffic."
WOO HOO!!! A warning, so glad I wore this little Calvin Klein skirt and tank top today. Yeah, I still got it. Obviously, he sees a hot, successful, career woman, making her way to a very important business meeting (he doesn't need to know I am racing to my old house to meet Salvation Army, who promised to take away years worth of old dog beds,) and thought, "Such a cutie, I'll let her go."
But wait, hold on a minute, was that what he was thinking or was it, "Ugh, I do not have the patience to listen to this old lady yammer on and on about why she was doing 58 in a 45, and why in the world would she wear a skirt that short. Gross."
At 51, I'm sort of walking that fine line between middle aged sophisticate, and Tammy Faye Baker. Whatever. If it keeps me from picking maggots off my feet while sleeping on a dirt floor, I'm in.
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