This was my second ticket. The one before was in 2001, when I drove into an 18-wheeler. But enough about that. This one was for a whopping 38 dollars, which I had every intention of paying.
See, my dad lived on the edge. He considered most rules as suggestions, like speed limits, mandatory car insurance, and licenses for computer programs. He got speeding tickets on a semi-regular basis, and then he would pay them if he felt like it, or if there was a surplus of cash and it was a ticket Mama knew about. (disclaimer: Daddy was a pirate, but he loved Jesus)
Sometimes, Daddy went to jail. Sometimes, we'd bail him out. It was an unconventional way of paying court fines, but then nobody ever called Daddy conventional. Ever.
Anyway, this ticket was due while we were in Texas for Thanksgiving and I forgot about it. Therefore, when I got home and read the due date, I realized that I very well might be headed for the hoosegow, otherwise known as the Slammer. I purposed in my heart to pay the ticket, when I found a checkbook, and an envelope, and a stamp. That never happened.
Today, I drove to R2's doctors appointment with the Law hanging heavy on my conscience. I exceed the speed limit by 5-7 miles regularly, and obviously I drive with an expired registration, but never in all my days have I been actually arrestable.
On the way home, I saw a police van in front of me. Immediately, I broke out in a sweat. What should I do? I read once that police actually pay more attention to people who are super-cautious about the exact law, because that's suspicious. A guy driving a couple miles over, casually, looks more like he's got nothing to hide.
So I was in a quandary. Do I sip my drink casually and try to stay behind him, driving 5 miles under the speed limit, or do I act natural and pass him at 42 in a 40? I tried both, sweating all the while. Finally, he turned off and went to bust some other criminal soccer mom in a minivan, and I drove home and paid my ticket. Sheesh.