After a weekend getaway at the Bruneau Sand Dunes (aka the desert) in mid-July, I was more than eager to get back to the comfort of my air-conditioned home. Sure, the scorpion hunt and star gazing were fun and all, but the 10×10 cabin I shared with four other people was a bit of a tight, sweaty squeeze.
Upon arriving back in town, I picked up my car and began the drive back to my house for a much needed shower and a hopefully a long nap. But suddenly, my drive was interrupted by the sight of flashing blue lights in my rearview mirror.
I pulled into the nearest parking lot and waited in silence for the approach. I had only been pulled over once before, and this 2-3 minute period of waiting was by far the worst part of the ordeal—or so I thought.
(Photo from 'davidsonscott15' via Flickr)
The officer approached my window and as expected, asked me if I knew why he pulled me over. Semi-acknowledging my failure to slow down fast enough as the speed limit changed from 45mph to 35mph, I tried to play it cool and chose my words carefully.
The first time I was pulled over, I went through a yellow light a little later than I probably should have. However, when the officer asked me if I knew why he had pulled me over, I responded cleverly, “I probably shouldn’t have gone through that yellow light.” Tricky, tricky!
After listening intently to the officer’s ‘safety talk’ and promising to be more careful in the future, he sent me on my way. My choice of words (and maybe a guiltless smile and ‘southern’ accent) won me a friendly warning.
But this time, it was a whole different ballgame.
The officer, who A) looked like he was 12 and B) wasn’t much taller than me, didn’t seem to care much for my clever tactics. I aborted mission and began to search for a new strategy.
After informing me that he had not only stopped me for exceeding the speed limit, but also for following too closely and driving on expired tags, I was almost speechless.
Okay, let’s be real here. I was speeding, but there is no way I was following too closely. I am so not that girl.
And as for the expired tags—I know this might sound a little ignorant, but I don’t handle those things (please recall the title of my blog for further explanation). After trying my best to communicate this to the officer in the most mature way possible (which was a little difficult considering I am 23 years old), it wasn’t looking too promising.
He informed me that I had been pulled over during ‘aggressive driver’s week’ and returned to his squad car. Irritated by his condescending reaction to my explanations and offended he obviously classified me as an ‘aggressive’ driver, I let my emotions get the best of me and started to sob…uncontrollably.
It wasn’t that I was crying to get out of the ticket. By the time I started crying I pretty much already knew I was getting at least one. My tears were more out of fear, confusion and let’s be honest, frustration that nothing I said had been taken seriously.
The officer returned to my car and handed me three citations. One for speeding, one for driving with expired tags and one for following too closely—fines totaling almost $300.
I think now is as good of time as any to bring up the fact that I have had a clean driving record since the day I first sat behind the wheel of my trusty 1990 Ford Taurus at the ripe old age of 16. Hard to believe, yes, but true none the less.
If I thought I was sobbing uncontrollably before, I obviously didn’t know what sobbing uncontrollably meant. I was now crying so hard I couldn’t breathe. Literally. Though close to hyperventilating, I gathered myself enough to ask a few questions pertaining to the citations. At this point, I think he was starting to feel bad, but obviously not bad enough to give me a break.
Normal breathing finally returned, but didn’t remain for long. As I was reviewing my tickets, I became alarmed at a three-digit number included on each piece of paper. What was this three digit number you ask? My weight.
What I recognize as a blessing for one’s self-image, North Carolina driver’s licenses do not include an individual’s weight. But as I learned that day, Idaho licenses do. Psh, see if I ever change over.
The number the officer had ‘guessed’ my weight to be in the area provided on the ticket was a number I have never, and hope to never see on a scale (at least not before I have kids anyways). He was more than 10 pounds off. Seriously dude? You didn’t even see me standing up.
After crying for another 15 minutes, I finally gathered myself enough to safely drive home. It wasn’t pretty, but I made it.
I have since contested my citations in court, and settled with the prosecutor to pay a reduced speeding fine. As they should have been, the other two citations were dropped on the acknowledgement of my clean driving record and what I like to call strategic outfit selection (aka ‘court clothes’).
And as for the overzealous officer, I hope to God I never see him at a bar.
