Notes on a new life: To protect and serve

I was driving back from lunch when I got stopped by a cop for making a U-turn.

I got distracted on my way back to the condo – I know, can you imagine? – missed my turn and ended up lost at the intersection of 495 and WTF.

It doesn’t help that I am the worst driver ever, a woman who honest-to-God lives in fear of the people driving behind her. I hate it when people ask me to drive them somewhere because they always cling to the dash and scream a little. That makes me even more nervous and my driving becomes even less tidy.

It also doesn’t help that my car is still packed with everything I own. It seriously looks like the opening credits of the Beverly Hillbillies. All I need is Granny.

Anyway, I was parked on the side of the road, my hair still wet from my shower, last night’s tank top on, rocking the Hillbilly-mobile – when I look up and into the most gorgeous brown eyes I’ve seen in a long time. This cop was seriously one hawt mofo, and I wasn’t even wearing my best bra.

I handed him my driver’s license and then hurled myself out my driver’s side window to watch him walk back to his cruiser. Hel-lo Fairfax PD.

Then I checked my own reflection. Day-am. I have had better days. Would it have killed me to put on mascara?

Before long, he was back at my window, checking out my pile of stuff.

“Please search me, please search me, please search me,” I prayed. (I hope this was silent, but you never know.)

Then he started to speak.

“Blah, blah, blah,” he said, while I stared at his face, then his chest, then down at his thighs. “Blah, blah.”

“OK,” I said, not knowing what I was agreeing too, but feeling fairly comfortable I’d be up for anything he had in mind.

He let me go with a warning, which is so nice. But I still kicked myself for my total lack of game. I didn’t even try to force my number on him.

I eventually found my way back to the condo and e-mailed my friend Melissa.

“Are you crazy,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell him you were lost and needed a police escort back to your house?”

I don’t know, I replied. I’m disoriented. I’m not myself.

“If I had gotten him back here,” I said. “Maybe I could have convinced him that I am so confused from the move that I need help getting my clothes off.”

“Now you’re thinking,” she said.