I was going 73 in a 60 yesterday morning heading north on I-35 from my childhood home in Georgetown, Texas. Only to me, I was going 73 in a 70. A clearly acceptable law breaking speed, you understand. Yes, there were some big cement thingiemajigs rendering the shoulder of the road useless. I saw an orange pillar every now and again. Come to think of it, there might have been a big orange sign or seven indicating I was traveling in a construction zone. But there were no workers. Which, according to Officer Jefferson, was the good news. I was hopeful that one look at my Oklahoma drivers license might shout foreigner to him and that simple fact alone would allow me to experience some highway grace. Instead, I was delivered a citation, in an electronic, computerized form, mind you. It did look quite snazzy. Indeed it did. Which brings me to something I must discuss. I’m a rather slow driver. I don’t accelerate fast. I slow down WAY in time at stop signs and stop lights. I wait a second or two before taking off when the light turns green. I don’t take corners like Danica Patrick. No, no. I’m a fairly good law abiding citizen and driver. You’d feel quite comfortable having me tote your kiddos all over town. Granny driver? Possibly. Mother who wants to keep her children alive? Absolutely. My wonderful husband, on the other hand, was born with plutonium in his foot. He is the long lost brother of Mario Andretti. He has been known to go 78 in a 70 mile an hour speed zone. The nerve. And the man hasn’t gotten a speeding ticket in over 10 years. It’s not fair, I tell you. Thank you, Hillsboro, Texas, for showing me the error of my ways.