Today was cold but beautifully sunny, sky the color of old, barely-blue jeans and crisscrossed with high, thin clouds-maybe-contrails. The field stubble and meadows were a brittle golden color, and the whole thing put me in mind of a Nevada winter day, sans mountains edging the horizon. Unfortunately, I was driving back from Quaker Meeting in Primghar and the scene had a similar Nevada effect on my right foot, because I hadn’t been on the road 10 minutes when a sheriff’s deputy, running his lights and siren, pulled me over.
He clocked me going *cough83cough* in a 55 mph zone.
First, let me say that I wasn’t going that fast on purpose — the needle had crept past my admittedly too-fast, customary 75. Yeah, I’m a lead foot.
He gave me a chance to explain, asking me, “Is there a reason you were driving so fast?”
Well, I’d just left Meeting — it’s not like I could lie. “I’ve got a bad habit of letting that needle creep up, especially on a gorgeous day like this,” I said.
He took my license and insurance back to his car and stayed there forever. Do they always do that? I mean, he could have read a novel chapter back there. Or written one — maybe I got an arty cop.
When he came back to my car, he said that he found my truthfulness so refreshing* that he was going to cite me for 65 in a 55. I thanked him, we bid each other good day, and I drove sedately away.
It is, of course, good that I told the truth, even beyond the benefit it accrued me. It’s also good I didn’t say the other things that entered my head, which included “They don’t have a minimum height requirement in your department, do they?” and “Why on earth are men wearing that Don Johnson stubble look again?”
*I know he was telling the truth in this and that he did not let me off because of my innate charm and beauty. I did NOT try to flirt. I suck at flirting. I’m probably the only woman in world who could flirt her way into a more expensive ticket.