I took my daughter to her youth group in my hometown (70 miles away) last night. As usual I sped, zipping around, trying to make it in good time. On the way home, more of the same. As I was rolling down this county road at 10:30, the '80s station started playing some Go-gos and I was singing along, missing the imaginary boundary I know exists, the 30 mph zone right on the outskirts of town. Lost in musing where Belinda Carlisle is now, I whooshed right by that police cruiser who immediately turned around and put on his lights. You know what I said when I saw those lights in the rear view mirror (under my breath--in one syllable).

He came up to me in my lovely little new Hybrid and said, "And I'm stopping you for....." "Speeding," I said. Then he took my stuff and I frantically tried to figure out how to script a plea for a warning. "I'm a friend to the police," I'd say. "I help you guys. Look--see this Hobby Lobby bag? These are beads for a bead class I run in the county jail. If I have to spend $113 on a ticket, I won't be able to fund the bead class this month." But it was not to be. He doesn't know about the bead class--he's a town cop. So I kept my mouth shut, smiled, took the ticket and anticipated the small town gossip when the paper comes out next week. I only hope they titter to my face rather than behind my back. I can take it.