Who Me, Officer?
As I was driving home from Mom’s a few days ago, I rounded a curve and saw that some poor schmuck had been pulled over by a cop.
Probably speeding, and although I felt sympathy for the hapless driver – (I’ve always loved that word -‘hapless’- who is that guy, and why has he no hap?) – but I was also secretly relieved that the cop was thereby occupied. Because it could have been me.
Yeah, I was zipping right along.
When my husband does it, it’s speeding. And I ALWAYS point this out to him in my gentle wifely way. As in: “For Chrissakes, slow the fuck down!”
(By the way, a couple of people who have reviewed my book on Amazon liked the book but said I had too much bad language. I had to go back and look through the book again. Obviously living with my husband for all these years has had an effect. Because I didn’t really notice any bad language.)
As I was saying… when my husband does it, it’s called speeding. When I do it, it’s called zipping right along.
I think it’s perfectly okay to zip right along if it’s a road you’re very familiar with. You know the road so well. You won’t make a mistake. And yeah, I’ve seen a bear run across that road, but come on, how often does that happen?
Years ago, a co-worker came to work a bit late and extremely irritated, because he got stopped and ticketed for zipping right along. The cop didn’t call it zipping right along though. He called it 88 in a 45 zone.
But what really made my friend angry is the unfairness of his ticket. Because his sister was stopped in the very same town just the week before (she’s a very zippy driver) and got off with a warning.
“It’s just WRONG!” He shouted in my office, and not in his inside voice. “My sister has been stopped a zillion times and she never gets a ticket! And you know why? Because she’s pretty. That’s why!”
I actually have never been stopped for speeding. But I did worm my way out of a ticket once. And it was a good thing I didn’t have to rely on my looks, as I had an unfortunate perm, oversized glasses, and linebacker shoulder pads back then.
I was on my way to work. There was a busy intersection where I had to make a left-hand turn. The cars were always backed up because there was no left-hand arrow on the light, and the traffic was so steady that you had to wait for the light to turn yellow and sneak through if you could. Cars were always backed up trying to find that small break to turn left. Often several cars would try to get through on the yellow.
On this particular day, I was last in a string of five cars trying to get through the yellow light and not be stuck waiting for another cycle.
And sure enough, after I went through, there was a cop waiting there – pointing at me to pull over.
Who, Me? I gestured with a big questioning innocent shrug.
Yeah, You. he responded with a head nod and a smirk.
The cop came over to the car and after the usual stuff I knew from Adam-12 (“License and registration, please”), he said in an almost friendly way, “I could have stopped about 3 cars ahead of you – the light was that red. What’s the hurry? Are you late for work?”
“Yeah. I’m running a little late,” I said as convincingly and sweetly as I could. “I was hoping to make up some time.”
“How late are you?” he asked.
“Four hours,” I said.
And he let me go.