Thursday, 19 September 2013


Yes, I know you asked to see my license, 
but first may I draw your attention 
to cleavage? You have my permission 
to use this as my official mugshot."
I took the morning off to attend a funeral. A wonderful man who had a full life and a loving family, a good man who passed at age 87, was remembered in a beautiful ceremony in the church that gave him solace his whole devoted life. My point being: it was a sad but not tragic occasion, which is why I am about to let something else take over this story entirely. To wit: my own stupid little problems.

Because on the way back from this blessed event, while I was rabbiting along the vacant backroads trying to get to work before noon, I got pulled over by the cops for speeding. (Coming down a hill, doing 87 in a 70 zone, cops lying in wait at the bottom: you know the drill. I'm not making excuses, I'm just saying I had an excuse.)  

To make a long story short, after giving me the de rigueur hard time and performing an extended version of "the shuffling of the documents," they let me off with a warning.
No one is more surprised by this than I am. Because in the past I’ve tried all the “tricks” to get out of a ticket, including crying, lying, mouthing off and basically just giving them the silent treatment. It never worked. Ever.

This time, I just sat there tossing my hair and looking bored. And I showed them the funeral pamphlet. And maybe I flashed my boobs. But come on: 36A? I doubt that helped in the least.
As I drove away, I reflected on the whole sordid incident and realized that, in the grand scheme of things, it wouldn’t even have mattered if they'd given me a ticket. Because I had learned a lesson. I had just left a celebration of a wonderful life and it was a beautiful day and I was still alive to enjoy it. So the lesson was that life is precious. And so are boobs.