Finally, I have something in common with Bo and Luke Duke. The flashing red and blue lights of police cruiser were set ablaze for me.

They’d never been for me before. I’ve witnessed many other people on the sides of roads or stopped askew in a lot, patrol car parked squarely behind. Speeding, red-light-running, tail lights out—the reasons are many, the excuses many-er, I was sure. So sure.

I received my first speeding ticket about 2 weeks ago. Not only was it my first ticket, it was my first time being pulled over. I enjoyed 24 years of driving with a perfect record. There is a wide line between having a perfect record and being a perfect driver. The line is painted the color of Sheer Dumb Luck.

I maintain I was snagged in an obvious speed trap. You won’t see me on YouTube in gritty black and white protesting about how I was set up, though. Set up, I tell ya!

The speed limit went from 45 to 25 to 45 in the course of about 1/2 mile and I was caught doing 43 in the minuscule portion that was marked 25 and it was night and I was in an unfamiliar town looking for a street sign on the left and and and.

It’s still my fault. Nobody else’s black criss-cross Mary Jane was pressing on the gas pedal.

The buck stops here briefly and then will be sent to the proper authorities who represent The People of the State of Colorado.

Reading my actual paper speeding ticket, canary yellow and marked with a big red DEFENDANT, is the most humbling thing of all. I see the numbers of my life: My weight from 2002 when the license was last issued, my mailing address, a court date, a birth date, a license plate, the approximate time of my violation, a fine. My life’s identifiers are more number than letter. I am merely Gretchen Lastname, Unemployed SPEEDER.

All of this was written in hurried block letters by Officer No. 225.

Teddy was screaming in the backseat by the time Officer 225 returned from his patrol car with the little clipboard and the cards from my wallet. I signed and shared it was all new to me. My first ticket, ever, you know…

When he tore off my portion and handed it to me, I said thank you without regarding what he handed to me. My polite nature is housed in my jerking knees.

Later, I wondered if Officer 225 thought I was being sarcastic.

I said it out of habit that night on the side of the road, but I mean it every time I get behind the wheel and drive with more care than I have in years. It’s not like I was driving like a Duke boy. Many of the cars I see pulled over are moms in minivans and SUVs. I understand how the daily drive becomes monotonous and mindless. When you are familiar with every bump and curve in a road, it’s easy to go on autopilot.

So Officer 225: Thanks, again. And a teeny, tiny, itty-bitty little heeeee-haaaawwww.