Here's proof: I dressed for comfort, not fashion, and left the house with clean hair (no gel, styling product, etc), an old sky blue Tommy Hilfiger shirt (eeew...Tommy.)(You must understand, I loathe the guy and his casual-lazy-Ralph Lauren knockoff clothing.) and khaki yoga pants. I do not wear sweat/yoga pants in public. Ugh. Also some hideous shoes that belong to my mother and were worn beceause my flipflops are at Kristin's and I didn't want to wear anything that had laces or buckles.
I was TIRED.
So I drive like a zombie to West Valley to drop my brother off. I am completely out of it. Kenny gets out and goes off to class. I turn around and start to leave campus.
This is proof of how spaced out I am: I'm hallucinating. I think I see a guy standing on the side of the road and drive by him, then whip my head around because I think I've hit him, but there's no one there.
Of course, at this moment the police car behind me starts motioning for me to pull over and turns his flashy lights on, so my thought process is somewhere like "ohshit i just hit a guy and he's under my wheels shit shit shit"
So I pull over (actually, I have to drive all the way around campus into a parking lot and park) and open my door and sit there in my Schlubby Glory, preparing to make a statement. ("I swear officer, I didn't mean to try to hit and run, I didn't even see the guy!") But I notice there are no new dents in my car and no blood splatters so I'm completely at a loss as to why I was stopped.
Mr. Police Officer comes over and asks for my license, registration, and insurance. I look a mess and I act it, too, trying to find everything. "Do you know why I stopped you?"
It turns out I rolled through a stop sign. Fucking stupid of me. I mean, there was a fucking police car facing me but I didn't see it and rolled through the stop sign anyway. Man, I can't believe I got caught for something so stupid. As the officer pointed out, "When we were coming over here you stopped at both of those stop signs, why didn't you stop at this one?"
And of course I have no answer except that I am a zombie and I didn't register that there was a stop sign.
The police officer then tells me that the ticket is going to be $290, and takes my information off so he can write it up.
So I do what any rational female would do.
I burst into big, noisy tears.
I wish I could pretend this was some sort of sly move to get him to drop the ticket, like flirting but a lot harder to ignore. But unfortunately, I really was just bawling because all I could think was "That's another 40 hours I'm going to have to work at Kohl's before I can pay off my credit cards and request less hours," and that thought was miserable. Also miserable was the fact that I was still at school in full Yucky Bad Fashion-mode, horror horror HORROR.
Lucky for me, the bad fashion and the tears, or luck or some happy combination of all of them, the officer decided not to give me the ticket. He came back and gave me my insurance/license/registration and a quick lecture, and then (because I was still crying) asked if I was OK. "Are those happy tears? Sad tears?" and of course I was crying so bad that I couldn't even formulate a good response. But it made me feel better that the police officer wasn't just being an ass and pulling me over because of a minor infraction. I told him I was just tired and the shock of the ticket was just a little overwhelming so I was going to go to sleep so he left, probably glad to get away from the pathetic little drudge in the dirty Pontiac.
...bleah. I am never leaving the house without dressing for the public eye again.
Thank you, Mr. Police Officer, for not giving me a ticket.