So if sports cars can go so fast, how come they move like snails when they are in front of Mary’s car?

So if sports cars can go so fast, how come they move like snails when they are in front of Mary’s car?

by Mary Gulivindala

Are you a believer in manifestation or prophecy? I am. I manifested a prophecy, and I have proof. A speeding ticket. One definition of “manifest” is: of or pertaining to conscious feelings of repressed psychic material; or a foretelling or prediction of what’s to come. Yes, I have both psychic and fortune-telling abilities!

I love to drive really fast. I missed my calling as a race car driver competing on the redneck car racing circuit. Perhaps in another lifetime. I haven’t decided if I believe in Karma, as in my return in another lifetime, hopefully more enlightened. Considering all the “coincidences” that happen to me, I’m about 98.3% convinced Karma is a go.

Two weeks ago, while speeding down the Atlantic City Expressway towards the beach, my friend kept grabbing for the door handle every time I switched lanes and passed a car. I said, “Don’t worry; I like to drive fast. I know what I’m doing.”

My friend said, “But you don’t know what the other car will do.” I smiled and barreled on. I proceeded to tell my friend that there are two tickets I don’t mind paying, my annual beach tag and speeding tickets, because I don’t get them. But all of a sudden a feeling came upon me — call it intuition or instinct — but my road radar went up. It didn’t slow down my car, but it said, “You better watch it.”

I often teeter on the edge of road rage. When I, in my Honda CRV, powerful as it’s not, get stuck behind a powerful, fast sports car like a Porsche 911 Turbo S or BMW M6 that is going 25 mph on a slow 55 mph highway because a snail is undeservedly at the wheel driving, I hear the car screaming, “Put your foot to the petal, man; I was built to fly!”

These drivers are lane blockers. They are unconscious of the lowly drivers on the road around them. They refuse to pass the car next to them, causing a driver like me to tailgate and kindly flash my high beams, of which they are oblivious. I am not a horn honker; it’s very un-chic. Now I’m stuck looking at the tailgates of two cars for however long it takes one of them to make a move.

Usually this happens when I’m running late to get to work or pick up a child. My assumption is that the luxury driver is retired and doesn’t rush anywhere because he/she is living a life of leisure. Only a person of a certain age can afford those cars; right? Unless you work on Wall Street or are a politician, have a trust fund or are a criminal, usually white collar, who buys these machines?

Every year I go on a pilgrimage to a yoga institute called Kripalu in Stockbridge, Massachusetts. I am part of a team that facilitates juice cleanses. It’s a working vacation, about a six-hour drive from Philly. At a certain point there are 100 miles of open highway. The cars on the road drive slowly, however. They must be aware of the frantic city folk white-knuckling their steering wheels driving to a retreat center in a panic needing to DE-stress.

I hit the pedal to a sane speed of 80 mph and put on the cruise control. It was blue skies and sunshine, music pumping and no kids. Who’s living in luxury now? I was zen for about 30 miles, and then it all changed.

I crossed over a small hill, and there it sat, a predator known as the state police, trolling underneath a bridge, just sitting there waiting for its next victim. I hit my brakes but realized I was busted. The cop pulled out, terrorized me for a mile, then put on his flashing lights. The bliss was sucked right out of me in that moment.

I surrendered myself. “Hello Officer.” Him: “Do you know why I pulled you over?” Yes, you idiot. Me: “You’re probably going to say I was driving too fast?” Him: “How fast do you think?” Me: “68 mph?” Him: “That’s the speed I clocked you at when you hit the brakes; my radar has you at 78 mph. License and registration, please.” You know the rest. I sat there and watched the snails pass me by.

I couldn’t be too mad. It was an honest bust. I am a speeder, but I thought he might let me go with a warning when he asked where I was headed, and I replied “I’m going to a spiritual center. I took a week off from my kids.”

Now I’m faced with a dilemma. I have to mail the ticket in and plead guilty or not. If I plead guilty, they will mail me a bill. If not guilty, I have to travel back to Massachusetts for court. I asked how much if I plead guilty. The copper didn’t know, perhaps up to $150. I’m going to check both boxes and send a note to the judge, saying that the car on my right was bullying me.

Skeptics might argue it was just a matter of time, but I’ve decided to channel my supernatural psychic skills towards manifesting a Porsche 911 Turbo S. They only cost $182,095. If I can afford that, I can afford speeding tickets or at least outrun the police. If you are reading this and own one of the two aforementioned cars or a kick-ass Mercedes, I’d appreciate your sending me a check for all the tickets you should be getting but don’t because you drive your sports car like a horse and buggy. The injustice of it all!

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