Just as it occurred to me that I was catching up to the traffic ahead awfully quickly, a police car drove by in the other direction. In one of those slo-mo sequences, I watched, open-mouthed, as the copper squealed around in a U-turn, right there on the major highway. And there was not a single doubt in my mind. He was coming after me.
Sure enough, the flashers came on and I was done for.
I concentrated on pulling off to the side as slowly and responsibly as possible, then cracking open my door in a non-threatening way (because my window doesn't roll down anymore). During those paralyzing moments, I instinctively flipped through my personal rolodex of feminine wiles, which all women carry in their heads. What tactics were at my disposal, as a thirty-something mom of two?
Could I play dumb? I didn't dare risk it. After all, he'd clocked me going at least 70 and I'd hit the brakes as soon as I saw his car. No. I was guilty and I damn well knew it.
Could I play the crying card? No. I've never been good at crocodile tears, and pretending to be weak is not my strong suit.
Could I squinch my arms tightly to my sides, pushing my cleavage into a more desirable display? No. That involved the distinct possibility of suffocating my plump self in a most embarrassing manner.
Mental rolodex depleted, I reached for the one tool that has rarely failed me: manners. I think my sheepish "yes sirs" and "no sirs" and "I apologize sirs" may have helped. I'm sure my old station wagon, complete with two child booster seats, eloquently expressed my upstanding and mild station in life. And his background check would have confirmed that my last run-in with the law was as a teenager.
I'm grateful to report that I was let off with a verbal warning, and not even all that stern of one. Thank you, sir.
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