Memoirs of a Sunday

Because the entire police force of my small town has nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon than set up a speed trap on a back road that has a ridiculous speed limit, I got a ticket today. Also because I was going 37 in a 25 zone. What can I say? I have a lead foot; I had been out late last night; I had to get up early this morning for church, where I spent two hours making sure that 15 children between the ages of 18 months and 3 years old didn't kill each other before their parents came to pick them up; I also needed to make an apple pie for dessert.

But I also needed a nap. I figured that I could make the pie fairly quickly and still have a little time left before my brother and his family came. So, after church, I took the back way home-- a route that usually takes about 2 minutes less than the conventional way. Unless every police officer in town decides to set up a sting operation; then it takes 20 minutes more than the conventional way.

About a block away from the turn-off to the turn-off to my street, I was directed to a side road, through the parking lot of the high school and right back up the side road in the opposite direction.

I was fourth or fifth in line for my accounting. By the time they got to me [for having every cop in the city there, you would think they would be more efficient with their process], I was almost nodding off at the wheel.

"Did you know it's 25 along this road?" the officer asked me when I had finally cranked the driver's side window down.

"I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that it was a lower speed along here," I answered, using my arm to prop up my head and looking at the tiny me reflected in his sunglasses. "But I honestly wasn't paying attention to how fast I was going." Also, that's a stupid speed for a back road on a Sunday, I added mentally.

It was true-- I hadn't even glanced at my speedometer since pulling out of the church parking lot.

After approximately 10 minutes of looking through the tiny glove box to find the truck's registration (I finally just gave the dude one of the insurance cards, of which there were copious amounts), and another fifteen minutes of processing (how hard is it to write all that biz down? It was long enough that I finally found the registration), and a five minute lecture on the anatomy of a ticket (not my first time, pal) and on how I would have gotten a non-moving violation for not having my registration handy* (it's not my truck, guy; who knows where my Dad put that thing?) I was free to go.

[*Side-bar: This is a ridiculous rule. A ticket for not being able to produce a vehicle's registration in a timely manner? I can see you're really pressed for time. All thirty of you! And obviously you don't want to be here-- you just set up a speed trap as a public service, not because you have some sort of quota to fill. And this official documentation that you want me to produce (in a timely manner) doesn't even have to say that the vehicle belongs to me-- just that it belongs to someone. The whole thing is outrageous, really.]

I've been stewing about this for hours now. I can take my medicine-- I broke the rule; I'll take my punishment now--but speed traps annoy the crap out of me. You have nothing better to do with your time and resources than pull people over for speeding on a road with no one on it. I'm not being a danger to anyone; I'm not being a danger to myself. I'm not infringing upon anyone else's rights, which is-- honestly and truly-- the reason we have and enforce laws in the first place: to protect the rights of the people.

As I pulled away from the encounter, at a reasonable 40 miles per hour,

"But didn't you learn your lesson?"
"NOPE! HAHAHA!"

the thought crossed my mind that I wasn't sorry I had broken the law; I was sorry I had gotten caught.

Which isn't godly sorrow.

I didn't want to change; I wanted the rules to change. It's a curious and universal truth: when we've been wronged, we want justice; when we're in the wrong, we want mercy.