True confession time. I’m a fugitive. Well, not quite yet. Truth is I have not yet been discovered for the scoundrel that I am. And if any Texas law enforcement officers should come knocking on my door after reading this tell-all confession, I will surely try to hide behind my dog, Jackie. Who is 14. And can barely stand up.
The back story: between the time that I was closing the real estate transaction on my old house and moving into this new house, I was living in a state of suspension. My belongings were packed up, but I did not have access to them. Day to day life proceeded, but I was just not grounded. Time was swishing by, almost on fast forward. By the time that we moved at the end of October, I had lived in this manner for about three months. The habits of managing some of the things in my own life had ceased, slipping unnoticed through the cracks. Things like updating the address on my automobile registration.
I was expecting a letter in the mail to renew my license plate. But of course it didn’t come. The sticker on my window says 11-09. That would be overdue. In December, I thought I might have a little spare time to drop by the appropriate government office to figure out what I needed to do about my tiny oversight. But, turned out that spare time was just a figment of my overactive imagination.
Yesterday I was studying that little sticker in my window as I drove to work. I’m hyper nervous that some eagle-eye big-brother radar instrument will spot me and I’ll be facing a fine the size of the state of Rhode Island. Which I can nary afford.
Then it dawned on me. That sticker is for my car inspection, not the license. Easy to remedy. Immediately. Tomorrow. Lunch hour, if not sooner.
Guilty as charged, of plain ordinary stupidity.