Before I begin, I want it on the record that I am a good driver. I have a clean driving record; accident free. All the scratches on my car are the result of others who park entirely too close to my vehicle. In the words of the incredible Eliza Doolittle, “I am a good girl, I am.”
Remember that, because the story I am about to share might alter your faith in me.
I was driving carefully (between the lines and everything) on a perfect summer afternoon, heading home from a day of fun in the sun. I had just turned through the town of Shelburne, heading west on Highway 89. The speed limit through the downtown was 50km/h.
I was very focused on the road, honest. My son was soundly sleeping in his seat. The warm wind was blowing through the car, the sun was slipping lower in the sky, and life was good. I had the radio on slightly louder than necessary, and was singing perfectly on key (I say “perfectly” because no one was conscious to hear otherwise) with Adele, the Brit songstress, to her hit Rolling in the Deep. We were killing it. She was totally going to sign me up for her tour. As the town disappeared in my rearview mirror, the ribbon of road ahead was hilly and barren, and in my mind, that meant that the 50km zone had ended.
It had not.
As Adele and I hit the high note, my foot pushed the pedal and, despite only going slightly faster, I felt like I was driving a Porsche in the fast lane to happiness. Why there were even flashing lights. Oh. Wait. That’s not good. Adele carried on without me.
I quickly woke my son. He saw the cruiser and panicked. He proceeded to lecture me on reckless speeding, a lecture that I will repeat verbatim when he turns 16 and wants to borrow my car. Then we sat in silence, in the park of shame.
A handsome, young police officer approached my window. I can only imagine his initial perception when he got a whiff of my smelly car with its fast-food containers, wet beach towels, and the horrible stench of a growing boy’s sneakers in the heat of a June day without air conditioning.
Mr. Officer asked that patronizing question, “Do you know why I’ve pulled you over?” I guessed it wasn’t my singing. “Miss” (he had me at hello) “you were driving 20 kilometers over the speed limit and this is still a 50km zone. And you are missing your licence sticker.”
But my sticker has been on since January, I argued. I had the proof. I had taped it on.
“Next time, remove the old stickers first,” he said, as he handed me a whopper of a ticket with points off too. Ouch.
I swear I could hear the Carpenter saying, “I told you so.”
Guilty as charged. True to form, I thanked Mr. Officer for his time, because I am cursed with politeness.
Enduring my son’s speedometer readings for the next 85km was unbearable. I was tailgated all the way home. I even did the unthinkable; I touched my brakes to stay within the speed limit. Who does that?
Dignity has a price: $135 and two points, thank you very much. That and telling the Carpenter he was right about taping a sticker.
Ugh.