License, Registration, and um, OK

I have never gotten pulled over for speeding.  Not that I don’t occasionally put the old pedal to the metal, but I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting one of the State Highway Patrol’s finest because of it.

Oh, I’ve had plans if I ever did though, just in case. I have thought about prepping my children to instantly start crying because they’re so afraid mommy’s going to go to jail that the officer would take pity on the trauma he inflicted on my children and he’d just wave me on.

But I never worked out that plan, and I never had a need for it.

Until recently.

I still stand by the fact that the officer was coming the other direction and from around a corner, but I saw the lights go on and knew I was going to be the lucky one with an “invitation to the Policeman’s Ball,” as my Grandpa likes to say.  The caveat here is that I am, technically, a pistol packing mama, meaning I am trained and licensed to carry a concealed weapon in my fine state (not that I do) which means I have to remain perfectly still until the officer gives me the word to roll down the window.

And that’s exactly what happened when the man knocked on my passenger side window even though I was sure he was going to greet me with his weapon drawn like I was in a late-night episode of COPS.

I rolled down the passenger window, hoping the children would start bawling, which they never did.  The dog in the back of the car even wagged her fat doggie tail.

I, however, was a nervous, beet red and blotchy, shaking uncontrollably, wreck.

“License, registration, proof of insurance please.”

“Yes, officer,” I answered and I threw half-eaten suckers and fourteen shopping lists on the floor before I found my wallet and license with the standard ugly photo.

“My other things are in the glove box,” I stammered, and I reached over and popped it open to find a mess of papers to dig through.  Pulling things out and sifting through, I found exactly what I needed—along with about a dozen emergency tampons that I had stockpiled over the years, just in case, in plain view and uncomfortably close to this young man with a badge.

Adding embarrassment to nerves apparently does nothing to help you in such a situation.  Neither do short shorts, a car full of kids and pets, or even a month’s supply of female hygiene products (all super jumbo “good gracious, Liza, there be a flood a-comin’!” mind you).

I drove away with a shaken conscious, a warning for speed, and the confidence of knowing that even though I’m not the slowest driver on the highway, I’m certainly the most prepared—which was more that that patrolman could say.