Just like old times

So I get into town yesterday morning, and we are immediately stuck in traffic. Not unusual for a weekday morning in Boston, so I roll with it. Then I take my sister's car so she can head to work, and I can head to her house for a shower, some food, and sleep (not necessarily in that order). In fact, I decide that the first day of my vacation is the perfect time for some McDonald's breakfast and a sweet tea. I get my food, and I head merrily to my sister's place, driving in what I perceive to be a normal fashion, though I admit I was a bit bleary-eyed from the flight. As I head down the road, a police officer steps into the street and motions to me. I slow to a stop, thinking he needs to direct traffic for whatever reason. He then quickly motions for me to proceed, and now thoroughly confused, I begin to drive away. He then makes some more hand gestures, and it finally dawns on me that he wants me to pull over. So I do, and roll down the window, all the while thinking, "What the hell did I do? Was I weaving? Does he need my assistance? What the hell?" Um, no, he doesn't need my assistance, except for the part where I hand over my license and registration, as he says he's clocked me going 43 in a 30 MPH zone. I'm all, "Really?"

To add to my confusion and dismay, I can't find my sister's registration and I have an out-of-state license, and I'm thinking I'm toast for sure. And I just freaking got here! He waves away my worried, "I'm sure I can find it, just give me a minute," and then proceeds to take 3,000 years to make sure I'm not a wanted felon and to give me ample time to sweat it. Luckily, he lets me off with a warning, and I drive to my sister's house (very slowly). I'm kind of grateful to the officer, but still kind of pissed, because my McDonald's breakfast got cold. And that's no good, people. No good at all.