Our 9-year-old son Sam had an early morning doctor’s appointment to have some stitches removed. Stitches that tend to bother him so he walks around with one pant leg hiked up mid-thigh, well above the stitches.  Well, poor Sam needed one more stitch to remain a little longer, so there he sat in the backseat, as we drove to school, with one of his pant legs hiked up all high.

Flipping around on the radio, I found REM’s “Stand.” Ah, the perfect song to sing with a young lad in the backseat.  The perfect song to take me back to my Eighth Grade days.  The perfect song for bopping along in the car.  Fun.  Perky.  Just what we needed.  I taught Sam when to yell “Stand.”  We ignored the teenagers in the car next to us.  Nothing would ruin our “Stand” moment.

Nothing, but the lights that soon appeared in my rearview mirror. Sadly, I would no longer “Stand,” but rather I would pull over.  I had presumably committed an offense.  I knew not what, but I was sure that I was probably guilty.  I was in a moment of “Stand” and not pure driving concentration.

Oh, how I wanted to defend myself. “Officer, but ‘Stand’ was on the radio and I dare you not to car dance to that tune.”  “Officer, I have not embraced a beat like that since, ‘Bust a Move.’”  “Officer, I am taking my son to school and you see he just came from the doctor, as you can judge by his hiked up pants.”  “Officer, I am a hot mess and could you please cut me a break on this one.”  Oh, how I could have defended myself, but I knew the right response.  Instead, I apologized.  I apologized a lot.  I begged for mercy, because I was caught being a fool.  Caught being absorbed in “Stand.”  Caught being an unapologetic mess.

47 in a 35. Ugh.  “I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.  You see, I’m an idiot” or so went my plea.  After apology number 26, I think he began to feel sorry for me or just wanted to be rid of me, with or without the “Stand” explanation.

Pulling away, cautiously thrilled about my verbal warning, I drove with great awareness. What is the speed limit?  Oh, there’s the sign.  What is on the radio?  Who cares?  Drive careful, knucklehead.  That’s when it struck me.  How truly lucky I was.  Well, there was my wounded son in the backseat showing off his stitched up leg.  Not even my “good dad” sweater vest could defend me for it was buried well beneath my windbreaker.  The officer had obviously cut me a break on that one.

More so, however, he had ignored something that I completely forgot about. Today at work was “Fruitapalooza.”  A Fruit Fest to end all Fruit Fests, where a winning fruit would be decided (Blueberries beat Honeycrisp Apples, 11-2, and Avocado squeezed Lime in the Third Place game) and yummy fruit treats would be enjoyed by all.  My contribution was going to be a Fruit Pizza and there it sat in the passenger seat.  Next to a cup holder, which carried a pizza cutter and (gasp!) a knife.  Yep, I was trying to apologize my way out of a ticket, while I had a knife (that I had completely forgotten about) resting by my right hand.  “Stand” down, dope.  Speaking of dope, I also had a Pineapple themed sippy cup within reach.  Perfectly understandable for a Fruit-a-Thon or a delicious daiquiri on a warm Summer day, but just plain weird out of context.  I looked like some strange knife wielding Jimmy Buffett wannabe of a father.  Just not good.

Sadly, there are some things so ridiculous that you just cannot make them up.

After dropping off Sam at school, I was a changed man. A perfectly fun car song by Iggy Pop came on the radio.  I resisted the urge to dance.  I had become a model citizen.  A model citizen transporting a Fruit Pizza and driving exactly at the speed limit.  Yep, a once unapologetic mess, I had learned the beauty and forgiveness granted through a truly regretful apology.  Now an apologetic Jimmy Buffett wannabe looking mess of a dad, who knows the beauty of moderation, even when temped by the melodious tunes, such as “Stand.”