I have a confession to make. And I’m making it privately, in this blog. I’m not proud of what I’ve done, or the people I’ve “passed away” to do it.
*hangs her head in shame*
If you’re still reading, and not already repulsed by my loathsome behavior, I’m asking in advance for your understanding: Please don’t hate me and recoil at the very hint of my namesake. And for the love of all that is speedy and swift, don’t tell anyone!
*deep, cleansing breath*
I used to speed all over town and country. I have an awesome vehicle that I love very much, and it goes fast. If you were in front of me only doing 75, I would inch right up to your hind end until you moved out of my way. I even became something of a law-breaking braggart: “Why don’t you let ME drive, we’ll get there faster,” I’d scoff.
Drivers of mere “other vehicles,” be they fast or slow, who would attempt to pass me would be automatically entered into a game of vehicular “Cat and Meister.” This game would proceed thusly: You would try to pass me, I would speed up and prevent it then slow down enough to give you hope, and another chance. You would try to pass me, I would speed up and prevent it etc...ok, aggressive, arrogant, dangerous, and downright STUPID, I know. If it’s any consolation, I never did that with my daughter in the vehicle.
One sunny afternoon found me in a dazzling hurry to drop my sister off at EMT school. A lazy, hazy stretch of pavement unfurled before me, and I was eager to burn some rubber all the way to Bridgewater. As I accelerated smoothly down Route 140 in the left hand lane, neither playing Cat and Meister, nor tailgating or trying to intimidate slower drivers, I soared right past a State Police vehicle nestled into the grass at a rest area. Apparently, his radar gun started smoking, then imploded as it registered my miles per hour.
I saw him before he started moving and even though I knew he’d nab me, my foot reflexively cowered away from the gas pedal so I wasn’t certain how fast I was going. After I safely navigated the rumble strip and situated myself in the breakdown lane, a stern, thoroughly-lacking-even-a-molecule-of-a-sense-of-humor-even-in-life-outside-of-highway-patrol face hovered just above the bottom of my window opening. Hey it’s not my fault my SUV is a monstrously tall, mammoth Tank! “License and Registration, please,” he barked. I handed him the documents. He went back to his cruiser. The Travelocity Gnome in a Policeman’s uniform hobbled back to the bottom of my window and handed me a piece of paper and an envelope and muttered “You can appeal at so-and-so court.”
I looked at the paper, with its fancy matching envelope. It was a TICKET! I JUST GOT A SPEEDING TICKET?
WHAT? This can only be because he wasn’t tall enough to see over the door frame and into my cleavage!
Nope. It was because I was doing 83 in a 65 and I DESERVE every dollar of that $220.00 ticket! I deserve to have my license taken away for that! I call myself a Paramedic, out there helping people? I could have been a fatality for some poor, happy Intubation seeking Paramedic student! I’m a disgusting human.
So I reformed. I set my cruise control now, 99.9% of the time. I don’t try to use my Tank to intimidate safe, law-abiding fellow drivers. As for Cat and Meister...well I had to wean myself off of that one. However, I weaned in the slower speed lane, challenging the Left Hand Lane Speeders who were driving like my Old Self. I’m happy to report, at this juncture, my Old Self is a thing of the past!
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| Yep, I even backed Vehicular Unfamiliar into my driveway :) |
Karma visited me the other night. She reared her cause-and-effect inducing head during a pitch black, frightening, involuntary trek I made on the backroads from Fairhaven to Lakeville on Wednesday, February 8, 2012. I was forced into this situation by my loving and beautiful Aunt Cheryl aka “Dinga.” On a ride back from Boston that evening, Dinga verbally pledged her like new, Queen sized mattress to my sisters’ bed (my sister lives with me and was in desperate need of a mattress upgrade). By the time we neared Dinga’s home in Fairhaven, her plan had snowballed into this dismal, non-negotiable reality: I was going to help her load the mattress in her husbands truck (which I have never driven). I was going to navigate unfamiliar backroads all the way to my home in Lakeville, with NO GPS (which I had never navigated before). I was going to maintain a modest speed because she was NOT going to provide me with any means to secure the mattress in the open bed of the truck (I begged for a rope, a bungee cord, dental floss...ANYTHING to provide a measure of securing the mattress to the truck.)
“Oh, Please,” she waved away my pleading concern with a well manicured, bejeweled hand and shot me a look worthy of a gaggle of maggots feasting on a bucket of rotting Kidneys. “That mattress is wicked heavy. It’s not going anywhere. You’ll be fine, it’s not even windy out. I have people coming over at 6:30, get going.” I am her favorite niece. No, really, I am!
I put my cat-tail between my legs and began the nerve wracking, 20 mile-35 minute drive to my Home. About 10 minutes into the drive, when I transitioned into a more rural area with lenient speed limits, I felt the headlights of the car (s) behind me assault my already anxious spirit. Clearly my foreign-vehicle, restrained-speed, mattress-transporting, terror-inducing situation was not going to be supported by anyone else traveling on these here roads. They flashed me. They tailgated me. They accumulated into a funeral procession of twinkling high beams in my rearview mirror. They tried to intimidate me by speeding up and slowing down, and coming to so close to my bumper I thought they would dislodge the mattress. Sound familiar?
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| Dear Dinga, thank you for the mattress! Expect Bungee Cords for every gift I get you for forever :) |
Yes, I was a blubbering victim of my own game. My bad behavior was the cause, and the effect was 3 wrinkles, 12 grey hairs, and 72 hours of acid indigestion. Thanks, Karma, Dinga, and Law Enforcement. :)
I am a 100% completely reformed Speeder!
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