This summer, I was pulled over in Brainerd, Minnesota, on my way to visit my cousin, who had just welcomed a fourth child into her family. My son and I were driving along, singing at the top of our lungs to the soundtrack of “Hamilton: An American Musical” with the windows down, when I noticed the car just ahead of us was weaving in and out of its lane. Deciding it was safer to get past the driver — who was, at the very least, distracted — I started to pass him in the left lane.
But, as we were cresting the hill, a police SUV appeared in the median, radar gun aimed directly at my little Chevy. I looked down. I looked up. I sighed.