You Have Been Served!

I am a fickle obsessionist. Most of my obsessions come and go like the wind. Avocados, Kombucha and chocolate for breakfast, Gatorade gum, my minister’s dog Chunky, so unattractive he has become adorable. These fixations are usually fleeting and easy to move on from (although I still can’t get enough of Chunky), but there is one I can’t seem to shake. I’m obsessed with finding a way to legally give out citations for the behavior I find unacceptable.

I have scoured the internet for institutes offering such training and certification. No luck. I checked on applying to the police academy. Good news for my community and perpetrators at large, it’s over for me. Most forces have a mandatory retirement age of 57.  I’m turning 58 on December 17th. That’s ok, I don’t think I would look great in the uniform. And dragging around the belt!? How do I drive with all that gear hanging off? Does the belt get removed before I get into the squad car?  I’m also kind of a chicken. Me diving into the bushes instead of pursuing a bad guy would probably not bode well with my superiors.

So how have I dealt with this urge, this obsession (It’s ok, you can say it, “this issue with control”)? I fairly regularly take the law into my own hands. I am, if you will, a self-appointed civilian lay cop. There are lay ministers who are not ordained but still perform clergical duties, aren’t there?  Why can’t that be me? Only I am on my own beat, in town, out of town, on airplanes, and inside museums. The sky’s the limit for where I can be of service!  Here are some examples. Just a couple because the list is endless and you would be reading all day:

1. The Metropolitan Museum of Art. I’m in the bathroom with my wheelchair-bound mother and her aide, Teresa. Someone is in the handicapped stall. Somehow Teresa and mom jam themselves into the tiny regular one. Guess who is standing guard waiting for the perpetrator? The following occurs during the Perps exit. She is carrying a baby.

Me: Are you handicapped? (I promise I didn’t shriek, but I wanted too)

Perp: I have a baby!

I detect a South American accent and she’s wearing Stan Smith tennis sneakers. Neither of those facts means anything.

Me: (Again). Are you handicapped?

Perp: I am with my baby!

Me: Until just now, I didn’t realize being a mother is considered a handicap! (I didn’t say that)

We side-eye each other and she walks away. My message was clear. She will never do that again.

Yes, she will.

2. On the sidewalk of the main drag in town. I come upon a woman with a parking ticket in her hand.  She is near tears.

Me: Are you ok?

Her: This is a huge ticket! Why did I get it????

Me: (I take a look at it. I find evidence she has committed one of the worse crimes in my book) Because your tire is on the line. Did you cross from the other side to get this parking spot???

Her: (Silence)

Me: Again, did you cross the double line to get this parking spot?

Her: Yes

Me: Are you aware that most people circle the block over and over and over again until a spot becomes available? A spot on the side they are driving on??? (My arms arm making circular motions)

Her: (Silence)

Me: I can’t help you.  

3. Airplanes. I would give out citations for the following:

• Nail polish application
• Baby kicking the back of my seat
• Gum chomping
• Music blaring through earbuds right next to my head
• Liverwurst and onion sandwich consumed by passenger in front of me
• Clacking away on laptop keyboard. We are not in the office, my friend!
• Man spread (ten extra points)
• Deep knee bends performed in aisle, back of my seat used as a stabilizer

I know this unpaid job with endless hours sounds like a lot, but someone has to do it.  That someone is me. Now if I could only design a snaky lay cop uniform for myself all would be right in the world.