Rules are apparently [not] meant to be broken

Usually, crocodile tears do the job. The last time I got pulled over, I was 16 and had blown through a stop sign on a residential street. I was also driving 10 over. When the cop tapped on the window, he informed me of the crime I had already committed.

"Really?" I responded, darting my head around like a crazy deer, "I didn't even see it! I've never driven down this street before!"

The cop took my license and, obviously, had to have noted that I lived two block away. He went back to his car to do the usual cop things, dicking around with his intercom and taking far too long for my taste. However, during this window of time, I had the opportunity to conjure up a good case of tears. These tears were inspired by the fact that I would be banned from participating by any means in my nearly non-existent 16 year old social life if my mom found out about this little incident.

The cop poked his head back in my window and gave me a little holier-than-thou speech about road mannerisms while I sobbed and moaned like a dying cow. Just as I thought he was going to give me a ticket, he noted that it was taken care of, like he was one of Martin Scorses' little mob lackeys, but to a cop mob (definitely not as dashing as Ray Liotta though).

I found out later that the cop who lived across the street had been at the dispatcher's office and had recognized the plates. With a little cop angel on my shoulder, I learned no such lesson from that experience. In fact, I took care to drive over the speed limit and roll residential stop signs at my leisure. I, for some reason, thought I had some bizarre sort of traffic violation amnesty. The cops were my friends, winking at me as I slid through yellows and going for more donuts when I turned left when it said 'right only'. I never tried anything very bold, just the little things, just to make sure I was still in the inner circle.

One traffic law in my top 10 most consistently blown off is the "15 mile/hour" speed limit for about 100 meters in school zones. For some reason, I have always rationalized that that speed limit was a sheer formality and code for " just drive 20 to 25, my friend!". It was in the same genre of parking garage speed limits and still a little less important than construction zone speeds.

Today, I learned that driving 22 in a 15 zone can actually cost one the hefty price of a $180 fine and 6 excruciating hours of civilian torture at defensive driving school, located at some mid-rate hotel about 20 minutes from my apartment. I also learned that cops do not take so well to the crocodile tears of a 23 year old woman.

This morning, while I sat in my car, I came to two irrational analyses of why the cop had pulled me over. Though these reasons were completely untrue, they were exceptionally pleasing to me. First, I decided that the cop had pulled me over because of my Michigan alumni license bracket. I decided that he was an Ohio State fan. My second rational came to me after I handed over my license. I decided the cop had chosen to ticket me because my address is in Scottsdale and he was just resentful because I had driven in from a land where cops have considerably more cushy jobs, a few duis and bar fights here and there. I also considered that he was hating on my gender and either a) his speed dating rounds weren't panning out or b) he was locked into marital slump. Of course, it was impossible that this poor man was just doing his job. Imagine that.

I threw all my cards on the table. Now that my mother no longer controls my social life, I had to think of new things to cry about. I put my head against the steering wheel and imagined our former schizophrenic cat, Carmel (d. 2001), in her final moments, basking in the sun on a windowsill with a lazy, drunk expression on her little face. This is probably one of the most tear jerking moments of my life. To really drive it home, I thought about my pending insurance rates (fortunately, due to cruel and unusual punishment of traffic school, they did not go up) and about the points going on my license. If there's anything that makes me cry, it's getting ripped off.

I pulled into the school parking lot and felt my heart sink as I realized I was out of the inner-circle. Robert Deniro didn't want me. The moment would've been perfect if Cat Stevens' Wild World had been piped in, "Ooooh baby baby it' s a wild world/ it's hard to get by just upon a smile, girl". Along the school fences of the play ground, thirty-some 2nd and 3rd graders gawked at me as I passed. Though I was crying inside about paying 180 dollars, I turned to the kids and smiled, "When you get your license, never speed. it's a very expensive fine."