Well, that didn't work.
Right in the middle of the parkway, where all 349 people can see my white mini cooper with the blue lights flashing behind it.
Did I mention I received 10 text messages from friends within 5 minutes of getting pulled.
"Oh Kel got hit by the PoPo!"
"Do you need bail money?"
"What did you do now?"
"I heard there are a lot of cute girls in jail nowadays."
"Show him your boobs."
I love my friends.
So I thought about possibly showing my boobs to get out of the ticket, but the only people interested in those now a days is National Geographic.
The officer walks up to my car, I fluff my hair, turn off the radio (because I am respectful, "I like big butts" shouldn't be playing while I negotiate with the officer) commence looking for the necessary items (license - not fishing but driving - registration)
"Good morning Ma'am, do you know how fast you were going?" Why do they always ask you that? Of course not, because I'd hit the brakes as soon as I saw your cop car if I knew I was speeding.
"Uh no, I'm sorry. I was running late to a workout class." I'm thinking, that's probably the lamest excuse from a sober person he's ever heard.
"42 MPH in a 25 MPH zone, and you went left of the line."
"Well shit, that fast?" I did hit the brakes when I saw him, how could I still be going that fast? Then I realize cussing probably is not going to help my case, maybe I should go down the boob road. But how do you get a sports bra off gracefully? Not a chance in hell.
***Of course, I'm thinking there's no one else out here, all the 349 people are either still in bed or off the mountain.
"I'm going to go run your plates." Why does this make me nervous? I'm not in Fast and Furious (well maybe in the speed department) My car is up to date, why does that line make me feel like an outlaw?
So what do I do? I snapchat a few pictures back to my friends saying:
"Cute cop, may have to show the boobs.
"Will orange look good on me?"
"Can you bring me your license, he doesn't believe the age on mine."
He comes walking back with a pad, well crap.
"I'm going to write you a warning today. I'd hate to hit a deer going that fast in your car."
A warning? I slowly lower my shirt. How did I get so lucky. I text my friends a picture of the warning.
"He said I was nice and polite and only gave me a warning," I text my friends.
"Obviously you didn't show him your boobs." One replied.
Thanks a lot.