Close Encounters of the Law Enforcement Kind

“No, nothing good starts in a getaway car.” –Taylor Swift

I have had problems with executive function for as long as I can remember. Certainly not to the extent some folks struggle with it, but it still causes problems. Usually, for me, this means I tend to get lost in niche research rabbit holes (“hm, I wonder what color the plants would be around a blue giant star…wait, where did those four hours go?”), and I struggle with starting boring tasks. It didn’t cause a ton of problems in school. Because I was homeschooled, my mother could pick the curriculum that made the subject I needed to learn interesting (thank you, Life of Fred Math). In college, I had my choice of classes that met the requirements. Research rabbit holes sometimes led to procrastination and sleepless nights, but it wasn’t the end of the world. 

Out of college, with a whole house to take care of (not just a single dorm room), my executive dysfunction has caused more problems. For example, dishes are a boring task, I often can’t make myself start them, but it’s okay, it just means I have to do more dishes tomorrow. I still haven’t managed to legally change my maiden name because…wait for it…bureaucracy is boring, I can’t make myself start it. Going through the gazillion-and-a-half tasks necessary to change my car title to my name and register it in my county of residence? Boring, tedious, can’t make myself start it, even though I know it needs to get done. 

Fortunately, I’m a good driver, and I’ve never been pulled over, so I’ll just drive carefully and no one will notice and I’ll get it done on my next day off (I said, for a month after my car tag expired). That worked out surprisingly well for me, considering I work across the street from a police station. 

Until, one day, it didn’t. 

There I sat, jamming out to Taylor Swift’s Getaway Car (yes, really) at a red light, when a trooper pulled up behind me and turned his lights on. 

Oh, crud, thought I, as I pulled into the library parking lot, and my active imagination (a boon, when I was a child, but now…) kicked into overdrive. He’s seen my expired tag, and I’m gonna get arrested, and my car is gonna get towed, and I’m just down the street from my dad’s house so he’s gonna drive by while this happens and laugh, and I’ll have to call my husband from jail to bail me out and he’ll say, “But I can’t bail you out, I just paid the mortgage, you have all the money!”

The officer approached my window and I, with trembling hands, offered him my license and (up-to-date!) insurance. 

“So, the reason I pulled you over today, your registration is expired.” He had sunglasses so dark I couldn’t tell if he had eyes or just black holes behind them, ready to destroy my soul for this traffic violation. 

“Is it? I’m so sorry, I just moved here from Athens, and I haven’t had a chance to change the registration yet.  But, my insurance is updated!” 

That was…partly true. He scoffed a little, and said, “Well, that’s good.” Then he left me to stew in silence, thinking about how I was inevitably going to rot in jail for the crime of Chronic Inability to Start Boring Tasks. Good thing I paused Getaway Car, at least, or he might think I was committing grand theft auto. I always said that if I ever got pulled over (this was the first time) I was probably going to be blasting Taylor Swift, unaware that I was speeding. Well, I was half right. I was fully aware that I had been driving on an expired tag for a month. 

Eventually, he returned with a warning. I thanked him profusely. I think I would have thanked him profusely even if he’d given me a ticket, I was that glad to not be arrested. 

And of course, I registered my car right awa… on my very next day off!