accidental blonde card

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.