I play nicely with others, I don't cut in line, I occasionally pay attention to the speed limit, and though I have to tie my hands behind my back to avoid it, I never steal the Sunday New York Times when I see it lying still virginal in its blue plastic sheath at 4:00 in the afternoon in front of someone's house.
But...my driver's license is expired.
It expired more than a year ago, but I only realized it a few months back. And now my pulse quickens every time I climb into the driver's seat. I'm convinced that I will be pulled over on my way to preschool drop-off, yanked out of my car through the window by Johnny Law, and roughly chastised for being a recreant, a rule-breaker, a renegade, and other words that begin with an "r."
I'm living a Michael Jackson song: I'm bad. You know it.