One morning I was running particularly late, and I was attempting to stay under a certain number of points at my job. Of course, my lead foot pressed down hard on that gas pedal as I wove a path around slower traffic. At times, I managed 90 miles per hour — in a 55 mile per hour zone. I darted my eyes back and forth, hoping not to spot any potential stops that would delay my arrival. The clock was ticking, and I needed to punch my card before the 15 minute mark. It seemed I was home free as I eased off the gas and coasted over to the right lane. As I hit my signal to turn right, the blue lights filled my rearview mirror. Instantly, my body surged with adrenaline, my heart leaping into my tightened throat as I pulled over to the gas station in front of my job.
I felt my face flush with terror and embarrassment as I reached for my wallet and rolled down the window. The officer strolled up, chuckling. For context, he just pulled over a minivan with a handicap plate, and behind the wheel this tiny little woman with a flower in her hair looked to be in near tears after racing to work — literally. He asked me THE question: “Do you know how fast you were going???” I nodded solemnly, knowing full well I was at the mercy of his notepad. “I’m writing this down for 78 — GSP would have nailed you for a super speeder ticket.” I suppose the hilarity of the situation and the end of his shift left him feeling somewhat generous. I took my ticket, pulled over to a parking space, saw I was already too late, and burst into tears. I got caught fair and square, and I should have woken up sooner.
The moral of the story? Slow down, or it’ll cost you a week’s pay.
