For different people, the end of winter means different things. For some, it's the end of restricting clothing and the start of showing off (or admiring) those long legs in tiny, floral-print skirts. Others see it as being that much closer to a three-month hiatus from school. And then there are always the few who wake up from a long slumber and emerge groggily from the fertile soil. But those are mostly bears.
For me, the end of winter marks one more icy season during which I haven't killed myself or my loved ones in a fatal car accident.
To say I'm a terrible driver would be a horrific understatement. I'm not reckless by any means, I'm just overly careful. It's like stage fright for driving—I take it so seriously that I trip up in places that come naturally to most. It's not unusual for me to momentarily forget if the brakes are the right pedal or the left. I've been known to abandon the keys in a running car or confuse the seat warmer for a bomb and subsequently jump out of a moving car screaming, ""I love my guinea pig!""
You can trace my driving abilities back to my driver's test. Or tests. I took four.
Once I finally acquired my driver's license, I thought all my driving problems were over. Obviously, no one had told me about the police.
At 22 years old, I've been pulled over more than 10 times and have had two speeding tickets, two negligent driving tickets and an illegal left turn ticket. And those are just the ones I can remember offhand.
The problem is I live in my own little world most of the time—creative geniuses usually do—and that becomes an issue when you're doing something where it's important to look in front of you rather than closing your eyes and chanting, ""Who defenestrated my purple lawn gnome?""
After the fifth or sixth time getting pulled over, I learned there is an art to dealing with your accuser that doesn't involve calling them anti-Semitic rent-a-cops. One summer, almost four years ago, when I was visiting an ex-boyfriend in a neighboring town, I got pulled over for going 30 over on the drive home.
""Did you know you were going 85 in a 55 zone?"" the cop asked me. I burst into tears.
""I just broke up with my boyfriend!"" This was cliché, I knew, but true. What I left out was that it was the fourth time we had broken up that week, and the reason I was speeding was so I could make it to my favorite restaurant before the hot bus boy finished his shift.
""I'm sorry to hear that,"" he told me as he pulled out that dreaded pink notepad. ""You're young, there are plenty of fish in the sea,"" he added awkwardly.
""But... but... I quit my job so I could visit him this week. And then he just broke up with me out of nowhere."" This was a lie.
He gave me a ""what can you do?"" shrug and continued writing.
""I'm homeless!""
The cop gave me a $250 ticket anyway, plus four points on my license, then escorted me to the nearest exit so I could calm down before I finished my drive to my home, which, as far as he was concerned, I didn't have.
Two summers later, I was pulled over for cutting someone off while driving between West Bloomfield, Mich., where I had been staying with my grandparents, and Ann Arbor. I tried honesty this time, which although just as absurd, fared much better and ticket-free.
""Where are you coming from?"" the cop asked me.
""West Bloomfield.""
""Then why do you have a Wisconsin license?""
""I go to school there.""
""Is that where your parents are?""
""No, they moved to Tennessee.""
""So where are you headed?""
""Ann Arbor.""
""Who were you talking to on your cell phone?""
""My boyfriend.""
""Where's he?""
""China.""
""Have a nice night.""
That was the last time I've been pulled over, meaning I've gone a year and a half without an incident. That could be because I've matured or because that summer was the last time I had my own car. Either way, spring is coming, which means one more winter down and only 70 or so more before I can go of natural causes, and not by my own hand at the wheel.
If you need a ride, e-mail Kiera at wiatrak@wisc.edu.
