Yesterday I left work at 2:45 p.m., approximately three hours earlier than my usual exit. As I drove home, I envisioned my first hours of Christmas break bliss: I'd throw my backpack onto the couch, slide into a pair of sort-of clean pajamas and watch a half episode of whatever was on hulu before falling into my first week-day nap in months.
And then a pair of red and blue lights flashed behind me.
I sighed, turning off the radio, and pulled over. As the policeman approached my car I pulled out my license and opened my glove box--a place I rarely, okay never, organize or clean. When he asked for my registration, I knew it was going to be a couple of awkward minutes. My glove box housed numerous papers of various importance, along with trinkets that should have been tossed years ago (i.e. the mysterious bottle of tanning lotion I haven't used in over three years and had no idea I still possessed). He stood there watching me sift through paper after paper, periodically clearing his throat (which was tremendously unhelpful).
Eventually I found last year's registration--finding this year's would prove impossible as I had yet to register my car. He then asked for my insurance card. Would the humiliation never end? I opened my wallet--reminiscent of the glove box--and began thumbing through cards I have no reason for having. All I could scavenge was a 2009 Progressive card. I handed it over with a sorry, "I know we have insurance, but this is all I have to offer. My husband takes care of this."
I hated the words that were coming out of my mouth. I had played the dumb-blonde card. The, "my husband takes care of everything important card."
As he collected my offerings I wanted to shout desperate things like, "I know what you're thinking but I am actually a decently intelligent person! I just happen to be bad with car-related paperwork. But I don't watch The Kardashians and I do have political opinions and I haven't read 50 Shades of Grey and I dedicate myself to educating the future of America! I stand for things, okay? I stand for things! So please forgive me for not registering my car and for harming the women's movement!"
When he returned he said, "Ma'am...I'm having a real hard time writing you a ticket right before Christmas. But you've got a whole lot of issues. Take care of them, okay?"
Me: "Of course. I absolutely will."
Him: "Be careful."
Me: (In my head): This was not a matter of me not being a safe driver, this was a matter of paper work. But, yeah, I'll be safe.
So, anyway, he was a nice guy. And the dumb blonde thing? It works, regrettably.
(Looking back at this post, I'm sorry if you expected a more sensational climax. If it helps, you can pretend it ended with the following: After severely mouthing off and spitting in the officers face, I was handcuffed. I then used the handcuffs to choke the policeman No Country for Old Men style. For obvious reasons I then left the state and am now on the run. I'm probably going to get caught soon because I'm using the internet and am not tech-savvy enough to prevent my signal from being traced.)
In terribly unrelated news: If you're a curvy woman, don't try on patterned leggings. Trust me. It will not do good things for your self-esteem.
Happy end of the world, everyone.
And then a pair of red and blue lights flashed behind me.
I sighed, turning off the radio, and pulled over. As the policeman approached my car I pulled out my license and opened my glove box--a place I rarely, okay never, organize or clean. When he asked for my registration, I knew it was going to be a couple of awkward minutes. My glove box housed numerous papers of various importance, along with trinkets that should have been tossed years ago (i.e. the mysterious bottle of tanning lotion I haven't used in over three years and had no idea I still possessed). He stood there watching me sift through paper after paper, periodically clearing his throat (which was tremendously unhelpful).
Eventually I found last year's registration--finding this year's would prove impossible as I had yet to register my car. He then asked for my insurance card. Would the humiliation never end? I opened my wallet--reminiscent of the glove box--and began thumbing through cards I have no reason for having. All I could scavenge was a 2009 Progressive card. I handed it over with a sorry, "I know we have insurance, but this is all I have to offer. My husband takes care of this."
I hated the words that were coming out of my mouth. I had played the dumb-blonde card. The, "my husband takes care of everything important card."
As he collected my offerings I wanted to shout desperate things like, "I know what you're thinking but I am actually a decently intelligent person! I just happen to be bad with car-related paperwork. But I don't watch The Kardashians and I do have political opinions and I haven't read 50 Shades of Grey and I dedicate myself to educating the future of America! I stand for things, okay? I stand for things! So please forgive me for not registering my car and for harming the women's movement!"
When he returned he said, "Ma'am...I'm having a real hard time writing you a ticket right before Christmas. But you've got a whole lot of issues. Take care of them, okay?"
Me: "Of course. I absolutely will."
Him: "Be careful."
Me: (In my head): This was not a matter of me not being a safe driver, this was a matter of paper work. But, yeah, I'll be safe.
So, anyway, he was a nice guy. And the dumb blonde thing? It works, regrettably.
(Looking back at this post, I'm sorry if you expected a more sensational climax. If it helps, you can pretend it ended with the following: After severely mouthing off and spitting in the officers face, I was handcuffed. I then used the handcuffs to choke the policeman No Country for Old Men style. For obvious reasons I then left the state and am now on the run. I'm probably going to get caught soon because I'm using the internet and am not tech-savvy enough to prevent my signal from being traced.)
In terribly unrelated news: If you're a curvy woman, don't try on patterned leggings. Trust me. It will not do good things for your self-esteem.
Happy end of the world, everyone.
Regan! you kill me! haha
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