Dang, am I in your lane?

If you are involved in law enforcement, you might want to avert your eyes now.

I’m here to say I go seventy on I-15. I slow down for the work areas because that “double the fine” sign impresses me a lot. And I go sixty-five at 11 at night because I’m tired. But, occasionally, I go more than seventy.

I know seventy is counted as speeding because I have a good memory, and I’ve had to take those classes that take points off your record when you get a ticket. I’ve taken them three times. One time I took it twice in a year and a half. I’m not sure how that happened, but I was glad not to have to discuss our insurance rate with the Big Boss. The one I’m married to who drives his truck like it was a covered wagon.

Did you know that if you take the two-hour class and get another ticket, you can take a four-hour class? You would not believe the people at the four-hour class! They are creepy. Except for me. And the other lady my age who kept telling the cop teaching it that she was only taking the class to get a deduction on her insurance. Ha! Clearly a criminal.

It’s was surprising to me that there were several other women floating around in those classes who maybe graduated from high school in the same century as me.

You know why? It’s because we are almost at the age when we become people who go thirty-five on I-15, and we are having our last hurrah.

The thing about traffic is that it really is a group activity. It’s like high school.

You’ve got your cowboys in their Dodge trucks who think they’re at a rodeo when they get behind the wheel. You’ve got the cheerleaders in their dads’ used Hondas who cut you off because they’re like, TOTALLY late, and OMG, on the phone!

The jocks aren’t much of a problem because they’re mostly my age and in cars that are so expensive they’re afraid to drive them out of the slow lane.

Around here, there’s a group I call the Middle Lane Mormons who are going exactly the speed limit because they’re too righteous to get out of your way. Speaking of which, those little family decals on the back of their vans are such a distraction. I always get caught up counting their kids and trying to figure out their ages and how many pets they have. And whether or not they home school.

And then there’s the old people. Old men in huge pickups with their blinkers on. Little old ladies whose curls barely show above the window. People like me who are awful at merging. (One of my kids just told me you’re supposed to speed up when you change lanes or merge. Where was he when I learned how to drive?)

Someday the kids are going to have an intervention and take the keys away from me. “It’s time, mom. You need to let someone else take over.”

I am going to be so ticked off.

Meanwhile, if I am going seventy-five in the fast lane and you’re riding my bumper because you want me to go eighty?

Well, never mind, sonny, I’ll move over.