Got pulled over. Showed a little leg. Got a ticket.
What ever happened to getting out of speeding tickets the old-fashioned way?
When I saw the flashing lights in my rearview mirror, my first thought, sadly, was: Thank GOD I’m wearing this borderline-skanky LBD (Little Black Dress). Not “I don’t have the money for this” or “my mom’s gonna kill me” or even “CRAP.” No, I was just grateful I had fully cloaked myself in the armor of seduction; this cop would never know what hit him.
As it turned out, nothing hit him. Actually, he hit me… with a $300 speeding citation. Ouch.
He strolled up to my window and I handed him my license, which I then immediately regretted, as I remembered what my picture looked like. (Anyone who’s had the misfortune of seeing my ID knows that the middle-aged, overweight DMV photographer obviously had it out for me as soon as she laid eyes on me. Apparently, she captured my glamorous photo during the midst of either a very passionate sneeze I was experiencing, or an epileptic seizure—one of the two. Either way, this unfortunate photo was not going to help my case.)
He told me I was pulled over for going 81 in a 60 mph zone. This didn’t register with me because I was too concentrated on gazing up at him while awkwardly twisting my body around in different contortions, trying to make sure he saw how short my dress was. (Do not judge me because I went to desperate measures to try and save what little cash I have; judge me because I craftily use men’s weaknesses against them and to my ultimate advantage.) Yet he was somehow strong enough to resist this overtly seductive pose, and he continued to probe me.
Officer Lindsey: “Is there any particular reason you were going this fast, Miss?”
Me: “Oh, um, no, not really. Well I mean, I really didn’t know it was 60. I thought it was 70 mph here.”
Officer L: “Oh, okay, so you were going 81, because you thought it was 70?”
Me: “…Yeah.” (Smooth! Okay, it was time to shift the gears into overdrive.) “BUT, I guess that’s still VERY bad, isn’t it, Officer?”
Yes! I had been a bad girl! And I was sorrryyyy. If he didn’t believe me, he could’ve just looked at my fluttering eyelashes and pouting lips—there was his hard, cold proof.
I was still perfecting my pout in the mirror out of the corner of my eye, when he turned and went back to his patrol car. I figured I’d better start preparing my “utterly-surprised yet eternally-grateful” face for when he came back to my car, sans speeding ticket, to tell me to be careful next time and to “have a nice day, Miss.” Then, he’d hand me my warning slip, and I’d have to force a giggle when he winked at me and then I’d have to pretend not to notice that he’d scribbled his name and personal cell number at the bottom of the paper (he was unusually forward for a red-head).
A minute later he was standing at my window with a smile on his face and a ticket in his hand.
“Just so you know, ma’am, the speed limit is 60 from here on into Dallas.” Then he turned and walked away. Just like that.
I immediately felt an overwhelming sense of guilt: This man was either blind or gay. So, either way, he needed my prayers, not my manipulation—what had I been trying to do here??
So I rolled up my window, asked God to please bless Officer Lindsey, hiked up my dress a little more and made a mental note to visit the DMV first thing tomorrow morning