I got my first ticket this summer. Eight miles over the speed limit in the middle of nowhere-Menard-County. A whomping $180.

I had always believed I was an invincible driver, like I had a sixth sense about cops. I just seemed to intuitively know when to slow my roll. This apparently didn’t extend to sheriffs.

My dooms-day sheriff was coming the opposite direction in a non-assuming SUV. He was a sneaky sheriff.  He snuck his car around, pulled me over and asked for my license and registration.

In this moment, I had a choice to make. What approach should I take that would give me the best chance of getting out of a ticket? I could cry, I guess. That works in movies. But I’m not really a crier. At all. And it seems like a weak, cop-out (heh) approach. It seems beneath me. Or I could go for the jedi mind trick approach. It worked for Obi-Wan Kenobi. But, alas, the force is not strong in this one.

I settled on the friendly, law-abiding citizen approach. The boring, apparently non-effective approach.

I began by placing my keys on the dashboard and handing him my very in-date license and registration. We chatted, made fun of my license picture and, I thought, became friends. We bonded. I was so sure I had scored a warning. I was reassured by the thought of my friend who had been pulled over eight different times and had received written and verbal warnings every time. Surely the law system would shine upon me with good luck and favor as well.

He came back with, not an extended hand of friendship, but an extended hand holding a ticket. So much for friendship, Sheriff Back-Stabber.

So now, I’m stuck doing defensive driving online. I’m doing it right now actually.

Did you know, drivers should come to a complete stop at red octagonal signs? Thank you, defensive driving.

I should’ve cried.