As I was returning from retrieving Sweetheart from a week with her grandparents, I chatted with my husband on my cell phone about the myriad patrol cars I'd seen on Rt. 30. It was almost an epidemic, one car after another, sometimes even three in a row, lined up like unruly schoolchildren waiting for their swat. I sympathized with the poor souls who were pulled over on the side of the road, their heads shaking with disbelief and denial, their wallets aching, their spouses glaring I could sympathize, but I could not empatize. Empathy had drained from my heart like water from a leaky radiator.
I was smug. It had been over 12 years since my last traffic violation, and even that one was questionable. I think the officer had just wanted to make fun of my driver's license and make me feel old by calling me "ma'am."
Lesson number 42: Never be smug.
The driving today was good--it was clear, sunny, and both of the children in my charge were fast asleep buckled into their seats. I sailed along in my husband's trusty green Jeep Cherokee. My cell phone rang out the tune "It's a Beautiful Day" and I picked it up to answer my mother-in-law's call. All was wonderful, the conversation was good, and the world was in perfect order.
Until I saw the patrol car going the other way.
My eyes dropped to my speedometer. 75mph at least, for sure. I was ten miles per hour over the speed limit. I kept my eyes on my rear view mirror until I took in the unmistakable sight of a police car doing a U-Turn to head eastbound--coming my direction.
"Oh, crap," I uttered into the cell phone. "I think I'm getting pulled over."
I hung up the phone and tried to very nonchalantly slow down, remember with great hope the myth that they can only tell you were speeding if you hit yours brakes. Glancing to my right, I gasped at the sight of the speed limit sign.
I was smug. It had been over 12 years since my last traffic violation, and even that one was questionable. I think the officer had just wanted to make fun of my driver's license and make me feel old by calling me "ma'am."
Lesson number 42: Never be smug.
The driving today was good--it was clear, sunny, and both of the children in my charge were fast asleep buckled into their seats. I sailed along in my husband's trusty green Jeep Cherokee. My cell phone rang out the tune "It's a Beautiful Day" and I picked it up to answer my mother-in-law's call. All was wonderful, the conversation was good, and the world was in perfect order.
Until I saw the patrol car going the other way.
My eyes dropped to my speedometer. 75mph at least, for sure. I was ten miles per hour over the speed limit. I kept my eyes on my rear view mirror until I took in the unmistakable sight of a police car doing a U-Turn to head eastbound--coming my direction.
"Oh, crap," I uttered into the cell phone. "I think I'm getting pulled over."
I hung up the phone and tried to very nonchalantly slow down, remember with great hope the myth that they can only tell you were speeding if you hit yours brakes. Glancing to my right, I gasped at the sight of the speed limit sign.
Speed Limit
55
55
Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap.
You know how, when you're just about completely and totally positive that you're about to get nailed for something you did wrong, your mind begins to race? You know how you start to think of all of the ways you could possibly get out of this? I gazed over at my sleeping daughters and knew that life as a mama fugitive would not bode well. I tried beyond all reason to convince myself that he wasn't actually coming after me but after one of the other vehicles that I was so expertly and effortlessly keeping pace with. I thought that maybe, when he saw that I was doing the speed limit now, like a good little girl, and when he saw my sweet cherubs sleeping comfortably in their seats, obviously not alarmed by their mother's extremely safe and gentle driving, he would just give me a stern look as he sailed by my law-abiding self. I thought all of this in the two minutes it took for him to catch up to me and turn on his lights.
Oh, crap.
I pulled out my paperwork and waited. All of the excuses I could think of rushed to my mind, wiggled into my throat, perched on the tip of my tongue. As the officer approached my door, I rolled down the window and handed him my license. He didn't make fun of it, though he well could have. But he did call me ma'am.
Should I bat my eyes, I thought? Should I act distraught? Meek? Repentent? I mean, here I am, at the precipice of a major speeding ticket. The strategy is very important. What should I do? I glanced again at my sleeping beauties. It was too late to run.
"Hello, Ma'am," the officer began politely. "Did you realize what speed you were traveling?"
In that moment, that brief, pregnant moment, I entertained feelings of anger, defiance, resentment, frustration, disbelief, injustice, arrogance and self-righteousness. I wanted to tell him that I haven't had a ticket in over twelve years, that I'm a very good citizen, that I don't even have a library fine. I wanted to explain to him that I was very tired from driving all day, that I had just had an argument with my six-year-old daughter because she wanted a welcome home party after returning from a week at Grandma's and I hadn't bought a cake. I wanted to give him the excuse that I hadn't seen the speed limit sign, that other vehicles were flying past me, that I wasn't used to the smooth ride of this Jeep as it compares to my beast of a van. I wanted to stab him with sharp words about how it must be quota day since I saw so many patrol cars on the roads, that he looked like he could use a donut or, better yet, a trunk monkey.
You know how, when you're just about completely and totally positive that you're about to get nailed for something you did wrong, your mind begins to race? You know how you start to think of all of the ways you could possibly get out of this? I gazed over at my sleeping daughters and knew that life as a mama fugitive would not bode well. I tried beyond all reason to convince myself that he wasn't actually coming after me but after one of the other vehicles that I was so expertly and effortlessly keeping pace with. I thought that maybe, when he saw that I was doing the speed limit now, like a good little girl, and when he saw my sweet cherubs sleeping comfortably in their seats, obviously not alarmed by their mother's extremely safe and gentle driving, he would just give me a stern look as he sailed by my law-abiding self. I thought all of this in the two minutes it took for him to catch up to me and turn on his lights.
Oh, crap.
I pulled out my paperwork and waited. All of the excuses I could think of rushed to my mind, wiggled into my throat, perched on the tip of my tongue. As the officer approached my door, I rolled down the window and handed him my license. He didn't make fun of it, though he well could have. But he did call me ma'am.
Should I bat my eyes, I thought? Should I act distraught? Meek? Repentent? I mean, here I am, at the precipice of a major speeding ticket. The strategy is very important. What should I do? I glanced again at my sleeping beauties. It was too late to run.
"Hello, Ma'am," the officer began politely. "Did you realize what speed you were traveling?"
In that moment, that brief, pregnant moment, I entertained feelings of anger, defiance, resentment, frustration, disbelief, injustice, arrogance and self-righteousness. I wanted to tell him that I haven't had a ticket in over twelve years, that I'm a very good citizen, that I don't even have a library fine. I wanted to explain to him that I was very tired from driving all day, that I had just had an argument with my six-year-old daughter because she wanted a welcome home party after returning from a week at Grandma's and I hadn't bought a cake. I wanted to give him the excuse that I hadn't seen the speed limit sign, that other vehicles were flying past me, that I wasn't used to the smooth ride of this Jeep as it compares to my beast of a van. I wanted to stab him with sharp words about how it must be quota day since I saw so many patrol cars on the roads, that he looked like he could use a donut or, better yet, a trunk monkey.
I was just about to toss out the an excuse about the long drive when I recalled a conversation I had with Houdin less than a week ago. I'd been correcting him for bad behavior and he'd been making lame-o excuses. Don't make excuses, I told him. Just apologize, say yes sir or yes ma'am, and get over it. "But I want to tell MY side of the story," he said, "and I don't want people to think badly of me!" Then, I responded, unless it's under penalty of death or destruction, just say yes sir or yes ma'am and get over it. That's what will make people think better of you. Don't ever offer excuses for bad behavior.
I knew I had to answer the officer's question about my speed, and I knew I had to hold myself accountable to my own advice.
"I didn't realize how fast I was going until I saw your patrol car," I admitted.
"I clocked you going 77," he said, "and I'll have to cite you for that." I cringed and nodded, knowing it was my own fault. "Yes, sir," I said.
I find it interesting that, when faced with justifiable correction from authority, my first reaction was not shame, apology, or respect, but anger, defiance and resentment. I didn't want a ticket. I didn't want this guy to think badly of me.
I hate to admit that. I hate to admit that it was very, very difficult for me to hold my tongue.
But I did it. I offered no excuses, smart alek comments or ploys to get out of my ticket. I just sat there like the very good girl that I am. Or that I imagine myself to be, anyway.
I'd like to say that my good attitude earned me a "get out of paying a fine free" ticket, that the officer was so impressed by my repentent and mature behavior that he decided not to fine me, but that's not how it flew. I'm officially a hundred and thirty six bucks lighter. I took my ticket, signed the acknowledgement, thanked the officer for his service and crept along in the slow lane all the way home, all of the other vehicles flying past me. One even tailgated me for several yards and honked his horn before moving to the left to pass me. I felt like I needed one of those "student driver" cars, except that it would say, "I just got a speeding ticket."
But now I remember what it feels like to be corrected, to be under authority. My empathy has been refilled. And now I can tell my son that I, too, followed my own advice. It was difficult, but not at all impossible.
I knew I had to answer the officer's question about my speed, and I knew I had to hold myself accountable to my own advice.
"I didn't realize how fast I was going until I saw your patrol car," I admitted.
"I clocked you going 77," he said, "and I'll have to cite you for that." I cringed and nodded, knowing it was my own fault. "Yes, sir," I said.
I find it interesting that, when faced with justifiable correction from authority, my first reaction was not shame, apology, or respect, but anger, defiance and resentment. I didn't want a ticket. I didn't want this guy to think badly of me.
I hate to admit that. I hate to admit that it was very, very difficult for me to hold my tongue.
But I did it. I offered no excuses, smart alek comments or ploys to get out of my ticket. I just sat there like the very good girl that I am. Or that I imagine myself to be, anyway.
I'd like to say that my good attitude earned me a "get out of paying a fine free" ticket, that the officer was so impressed by my repentent and mature behavior that he decided not to fine me, but that's not how it flew. I'm officially a hundred and thirty six bucks lighter. I took my ticket, signed the acknowledgement, thanked the officer for his service and crept along in the slow lane all the way home, all of the other vehicles flying past me. One even tailgated me for several yards and honked his horn before moving to the left to pass me. I felt like I needed one of those "student driver" cars, except that it would say, "I just got a speeding ticket."
But now I remember what it feels like to be corrected, to be under authority. My empathy has been refilled. And now I can tell my son that I, too, followed my own advice. It was difficult, but not at all impossible.
