Speedy Gonzales

Let me preface this post by stating that I don't make it a regular habit to speed. Intentionally. Key word: Intentionally. I'm pretty sure you are now fully aware of where I'm going with this...
In the past eighteen years of possessing a drivers licence in my wallet, I have not once received a speeding ticket. And I have, in those long eighteen years received only one written warning for speeding.

(Am I making myself sound like a good law abiding citizen? Fabulous. Now that I've pleaded a case for myself, let's fast forward to today.)

I was travelling home from an hour long drive for the girls' dentist appointments when the event occurred. For most of the drive the speed limit is fifty miles per hour. A nice, comfortable cruising speed. The problem lies when one cruises into these small little towns and the speed limit rapidly descends to twenty five miles per hour. Twenty. Five. Now, I challenge you...go hop in your vehicle, find a straight stretch and crank her up to fifty. (That would be 66.6 kilometers per mile, all my Canadian friends.) Then slam on the breaks and attempt to go just even one mile at twenty five. It feels terribly snail-paced. Terribly. Almost unrealistic, if you ask me. Unfortunately, however, our state and municipal laws tend not to agree. And so, as I sped (literally) past the officer parked in his truck, it simultaneously occurred to me that I had just entered one of those little towns, and that perhaps I was not travelling at twenty five miles per hour. Forty one (which I'm told was the speed I was travelling at) sure felt like twenty five. Turns out feelings have nothing to do with the matter. The officer followed a few cars behind me through a stop sign and onto another road. And when he put his special blue lights on, I graciously pulled over to let him pass by to whatever emergency he was needed at. Except he didn't pass by. In fact, he pulled up behind me. It was that moment that I recalled how very difficult it is to go from driving fifty miles per hour smack down to twenty five. And a thought was brought to the fore front of my mind: I just failed miserably. The very young looking officer approached my window. I'm pretty sure he just completed high school. Which didn't look good for me...he had a brand new badge, a brand new note pad containing unwritten tickets, and he wasn't afraid to use 'em. Gulp. Then something beautiful happened...he peered into the window of my van, noticed my children (correctly secured in their seat belts) and declared, "That's a full van-load you have today, ma'am." To which I smiled (while still blushing from the embarrassment of being pulled over in the first place) and replied, "Everyday, sir, everyday..." The idle chit chat still didn't get me out of the procedure of providing proof of insurance, licence and registration. I fumbled endlessly through my glove compartment. Now, I'm sure that the glove compartment is a great place to store all important documents, and necessary papers for such a time as this, but I am a mom and a woman. And as such, I work hard at making the best use of all space. A place for everything, and everything in it's place. And the glove compartment just so happens to be my domain when on family road trips. Which means there are napkins, tissues, toilet paper, an occasional ketchup packet and feminine products. Ahem. Yes, feminine products. Of which were flying left and right while on my quest for the papers this gentleman was in need of. The gentleman that was patiently watching outside my drivers window still. He must of sensed my utter and complete embarrassment, for he quietly excused himself back to his truck to run my licence plate through his database. Which apparently didn't bring up anything exciting, for he let me go with just a verbal warning. Which I found just amazing. I couldn't provide proof of my insurance, and I wasn't speeding just a little beyond the limit. The only conclusion I can come up with is the following: He's young. He has a mom. He remembers how absent minded mothers are. You see, we don't intentionally speed. It's just that with so much that our brains have to remember, all the compartmentalizing we do, it's just so darn difficult to keep up with speed limits. Such a nice boy, that officer was. I continued on home, thankful that it was just a verbal reminder.
The real kicker to this whole event was going to church tonight. I had long gotten past the whole situation, in fact it was the farthest thing from my mind.Much to my chagrin, a sweet older lady friend approached me after the service and quietly whispered in my ear, "So....are ya goin' to jail?" (With an enormous grin and a hint of hysterical laughter threatening to leak out.) I just about lost it laughing (mind you I am NOT a quiet laugher...thus turning many heads...). Turns out she and her husband were nestled cozily beside their police scanner this afternoon; and heard my name broadcasted as the officer called in my plate numbers. As if it just wasn't humiliating enough to have not one but all three of my children watch their mom get in trouble with the law...
Mental note to self: keep a better eye on speed limits. Humbling way to learn? Indeed. But lesson learned.