One thing I’ve learned from my rash of tickets is I should really read the road signs. My first ticket was an illegal right on red that I made on the way to work. I felt pretty outraged and picked on until the next day when I saw the three signs that the officer impatiently told me were there. He must have gone and put them up right after he pulled me over – I swear they weren’t there the day before!
Anyway, my latest (and hopefully my last) ticket was for speeding. I am so embarrassed. For those who read my last blog, you’ll recall that I said I “abhor” speeders. Nice, Leigh, real nice. So, it’s safe to say that I no longer feel quite as strongly in that area. Speed happens. I understand that now.
Ironically, I had just said that very morning that I was paranoid now since receiving my first ticket. It’s a rude awakening to know that you can no longer bat your eyelashes out of one (not that I’ve ever done such thing, mind you). But, Smokey got me, once again. It was near the airport on I-285. Did you know I-285 was a 55 mph zone? I had no idea. I thought it was 70, which is why I told him I was going 76. Did you know ignorance of the law is no excuse? Honestly, must I learn EVERYTHING the hard way?
He wrote me my ticket, politely ignored my sniffles, and sent me on my merry way. I made my way to work, paid for my first ticket online and received a jolt – tickets are expensive! And scary – I had to tell my husband.
His reply? “You know it’s going to happen again.”
Vowing to (please, God!) prove him wrong, I drove 55 mph to work the next day. I had a lot of time to think as cars whizzed past me. One of the things I concluded was the good Lord must be giving me a lesson in patience. I admittedly have very little, but in an effort to improve myself and avoid seeing blue lights in the rearview mirror, I drove all the way in the far right – not the left – lane.
At first, I was a little worried. Southerners are as polite as can be, until they get behind the wheel of a vehicle. Then they turn into horn-blowing, tailgating, middle-finger-pointing monsters. Please don’t ask me how I know. However, I was pleasantly surprised. Folks ignored me, and I took deep breaths and tried to ignore them. I soon found myself with a private lane all the way to Atlanta. Well, me and the guy with the pick-up truck full cardboard.
I figured out it was all state of mind and music. No, more “I can’t drive 55.” I cranked up Frank Sinatra and cruised my way down the interstate. Amazingly, I made it there in about the same time. Of course, there’s always the ride home to worry about.