Whenever I hit the road I feel a giddy sense of freedom. I drive with the windows and the top of my trusty little convertible down and pump up the jams. I am, after all, a child of the 80’s and 90’s.
State 1 on my route to Canada is Indiana. It’s as Midwestern as it gets. I spent a few years at college in Bloomington mostly forgetting about things like responsibility and chores. I zoom down I-65 and decide to cut down to the old Hoosier campus to visit a few ghosts of the past and see how much of it remains the same. I have a hankering for old limestone and brick.
I stop there for the night and visit my old haunts as I haven’t been back since leaving school in 2002. Which was, dear God, several lifetimes ago.
Each time I end a relationship I go through a period of rebirth. One aspect of this is inevitably physical. I boost the pain-satisfaction of my workout routine. No, really, I can have a six-pack and eat cake daily. Included in this routine are Kegels. Essential to any woman who strives towards having more than satisfactory sex. Sex is a monster for me. One I love. And so I embrace Kegels. I do them everywhere. As I stand in the checkout line, while on a conference call, during a long conversation with the coffee guy. Most particularly, while driving.
One and two and three and four and one and two and three and four and one and two and three and four. And one and oops.
Perhaps I should have paid better attention to the speed limit. Blue lights flash behind me. I pull over, still clenching and releasing, as I wait for the cop to get out of their car.
The cop looks a bit bearish as she walks up to my window. This does not bode well for me. I am on an adventure. I am recreating myself. I am in a period of rejuvenation. She frowns at me. I am fucked.
“Ma’am, do you know how fast you were going?”
“Mmhm,” the cop says, “And why were you speeding?”
“Um . . . Kegels?”
“Mmhm,” Comes the officer’s automatic response with a head nod followed by two quick blinks of her eyes as she registers what I said and issues a guffawed “Huhwhat?”
“Kegels,” I tell her, deciding to dedicate myself to the truth and plunge forward, “Gotta maintain, officer. Gotta keep my bits in fighting shape. See, I’m single now. And I’m on an adventure to find Mr. Right. So . . . Kegels. It was the Kegels that did it, officer.”
The cop stares at me then flicks her notepad open. Which is fair.
“Ma’am,” she says, “Do you think you could do those at home next time?”
It was worth a shot. As I pull back onto the road I wonder when the last time was that she exercised her bits.
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