Editor-At-Large: She fought the stupid law and the stupid law won

When I was a kid, my mom often described me with one of those parental winks.

“She’s a willful little one.”

The scene would’ve been ugly: I would likely be pounding my fists on the filthy floor of a Thrifty’s or something because the bubble gum ice cream wasn’t the right shade of blue. I’d be flushed and squinty-eyed, the same look I sported in every school and family photo because, how dare you tell me to smile.

It wasn’t until my brush with the law at age 24 – and perhaps to an even greater extent, my brush with parenting at age 40 – that I began to experience the consequences of the arms-crossed, I’m-right, contumacious disposition.

The entire New England region of the country was to blame for my downfall. It began with a visit to their “RMV,” which was wrong already in my estimation. (It’s a department, not a registry, people.)

They told me I needed to get a $60 vehicle inspection, and that I had to display this inspection sticker in my car at all times, to which I explained that my car had just been smogged – in the strict air-standards state of Califoia, no less – and that this cute little “sticker” wouldn’t be necessary, because here, I have all the paperwork, so thanks for your time and consideration. ’K-bye.

The first time I was pulled over, the cop let me go. “Just get that inspection sticker taken care of,” he said.

The second time, the cop wrote me a “fix-it” ticket, which cost nothing so long as you fixed the problem, which I had no intention of doing. Because, no problem.

Weeks, then months, passed. Notices from the court were unopened and thrown into the trash with angry intent.

My colleagues at the newspaper mocked my bullheadedness – “I thought everyone on the ‘Left Coast’ was mellow and laid-back,” one guy, who wore a bow tie to work, liked to say while poorly impersonating someone smoking a joint.

And then, on my way to an interview with the police chief of one of the towns on my beat, it happened again, red sirens flashing behind me. After handing over my license and registration, the cop came back with some bad news: I had a warrant out for my arrest.

“I’m a reporter,” I said, unsure of why I thought that would help my cause. “I was on my way to the station anyway.”

The cop found that extremely fuy; never heard that one, he said. “But sorry, ma’am, you have to come with me.”

The officer soon discovered that my story was idiotically true; as soon as I finished with booking and was allowed to leave on my own recognizance, I proceeded to my meeting with the chief.

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I thought of this humiliating experience recently after stumbling across an article in a parenting magazine that talked about how to handle a “willful” child.

“Remember,” the article says, that strong-willed children “have to see for themselves if the stove is hot.” We lea according to experience, the experts say, so we must be allowed to test limits.

Forget New England; my parents are apparently to blame for my downfall.

Now I’m all flushed and squinty-eyed again.

City Editor Melissa Evans can be reached at [email protected].