I don't know what to do with this thing.

I hate a man.
Yeah, you read right – hate.

M. H. Kesler.
Kesler.
Bleh.


Kesler.
Of the Alabama Highway Patrol.
His officer ID is 106, just in case you’re wondering.

Ok, ok, I suppose hate is rather strong. We’ll just go with  extremely abhor  for now.
I think you probably know where I’m going with this story, but this is a hard one for me to tell.  See, sometimes I imagine myself as being something very close to perfection (cough cough), and it really stings when some total stranger brings me back to reality.

Please feel free to be mad at the dude for the next few minutes, because little is better than a group being collectively angry at the same person.

---Fuzzy Flashback Sequence---

It was a dreary Sunday morning as Adam and I set out on an epic journey to my homeland to visit and celebrate the twenty-third anniversary of my dear, younger brother’s day of birth. The rain was coming down, but we were on schedule. We had departed early in order to attend church with my sweet mother and grandfather, but time and Mother Nature were seemingly against us.

The windshield wipers swished water from side to side as I safely motored west on Highway 72. Axl Rose was telling me that “nothing lasts forever, even cold November rain” when I performed a safety check: gauges and a quick glance in all mirrors.

Rose’s word should have served as a forewarning, but alas, it is only in hindsight that we see foreshadowing moments.

That day, my favorite shade of blue was unhappily flashing me in the rearview mirror. I did what they do in movies and pulled over – in a church parking lot – honest to goodness tears brimming. This grotesque officer climbs out of his unmarked vehicle and hobbles over to my window, demanding nothing but my credentials, and waddles back to his car.

In the mean time, my sweet sweet husband is trying his best to calm me down: tears are flowing, mascara is running – a panic attack is sure to ensue.  Adam coaches me to spit out the obligatory “yes sir” and “no sir” when he returns and reassures me that everything is going to be fine.

The hideous officer Kesler returns with a piece of paper hand. With his beady eyes, he peers into my vehicle, taking in my Bride of Frankenstein mascara smudged face and tells me that I was doing 65 in a 45.

“I’m so (hiccup, snot suck in sound) sorry, Officer. I thought (hiccup, cough) it was sixty through here.”

“It hasn’t been sixty since you entered Limestone county,” he replies as he shoves the piece of paper in my hand.

I take the paper from him and, resisting the urge to crumple it, throw it into the back seat.

“You need to do something about this before April 27^th,” he finishes and trods back to his vehicle. 

After he had hoisted himself back into the vehicle, he sped off – clearly not at his recommended 45 miles per hour speed.

Sweet Adam drove the rest of the way to Tennessee as I fumed, cried, raged, and cried some more.

---End Fuzzy Flashback Sequence---

I was proud that I was able to collect myself and not let that ruin my day, but it was never far from my thoughts. I knew that I had done 60/65 through there before. It wasn’t until our trek back to Athens that I realized why I had gotten the ticket.

Highway 72 west has a 60 mph limit, but 45 when wet.

NERDS! Who knew that we really needed to read those signs? Who knew.

Now that I’ve marinated on the whole ordeal for 24 hours, I no longer want to egg and roll his house, slash his tires, key his vehicles, or kick him in the shins. He very well could have saved Adam and me from a terrible wreck or some other impending doom. And I feel better that we’ve all been mad at him together, but I do believe it’s time to let it go.

I guess I was pretty lucky to make it ten years without an infraction, though, because I’ve done my fair share of speeding. But I have no idea what to do with this thing. How do you get into traffic school? Does this silly thing make my insurance rate increase? I don’t know. Adam doesn’t know, either. Shees, Kesler, thanks a lot.

I work for "Decqtur" City Schools.
Smrt.

You know, since his sweet actions are going to cost me a couple hundred, I’d love to send Officer Kesler one of my Team in Training fundraising letters. Wonder if I can find his address….

But really - what advice do you have? I don't know what to do, and am kinda intimidated!

***The description of Officer Kesler may or may not have been slightly distorted due to blind rage. He was probably just doing his job (because catching speeders is more important than catching drug runners...). But seriously, I'm sure he was normally proportioned, had a typical gait, but the "beady eyes" comment stands - not mean, just observant.