I got my first speeding ticket in 29 years, and I couldn’t be happier.

Don’t get me wrong. At first, I was mad. I’m talking nail- spitting, fit-to-be-tied, bent-out-of-shape, hot-under-the-collar, up-in-arms, red-faced, seething, fuming anger, my friends.

After all, I was just trying to get to my mom’s house on time for dinner. Not that mom is a stickler for promptness, but I hate to worry her needlessly. (“Worry and Guilt” … it’s etched on our family crest.)

There I was, cruising down the street – daughter and husband in tow – when, out of nowhere, an unmarked police car appeared in my rearview mirror, lights flashing and siren screaming.

It took a few beats for reality to set in.

“Maybe a tail light is out,” I said. “Honey, did you remember to put the little tax stickers on the license plate? ‘Course, he could be chasing the car in front of us …”

“How fast were you going?” my husband asked, barely containing his irritation.

“I don’t know,” I replied, as I pulled over to the curb. “Surely, you don’t think I was SPEEDING??!” I spit out the word like it was the most heinous crime on the books.

Hanging my head out the window, I watched as the patrolman hitched up his weighty belt and approached my car. He was flexing his fingers, right hand poised over his gun holster. “Let’s hope he’s suffering from a bad case of carpal tunnel,” I thought to myself.

He peered over his Foster Grants and said, “Evenin’ ma’am.” I swear, he sounded just like Andy Griffith. “Bad news. I clocked you going 49, and this is a 35-mile-per-hour zone.”

“Really, officer?” I said, doing my best Marilyn Monroe impression (which, unfortunately, sounded more like Miss Piggy). “I had no idea. I’m SORRY.”

“Where you goin’?” he countered, unmoved by my heartfelt apology.

“To grandmother’s house, down the road,” I answered, trying to invoke that devoted, innocent spirit of, say, Little Red Riding Hood.

“This will just take a minute,” he said flatly, as if he’d heard the Red Riding Hood schtick before. “Operator’s license, please.”

I surrendered my license (hoping he’d have the decency not to laugh at the photo until I was out of earshot) and waited while he returned to his car to process the ticket.

“Mom got bus-ted:” my daughter sang in that na-nana-boo-boo tone only a mother could love. My husband sat in silence.

I launched into furious shoulda-woulda-coulda mode:

“This is NOT funny. I wasn’t going THAT fast. I should have told him about my perfect driving record. I haven’t gotten a ticket since I was 23. What’s this going to do to my preferred driver status?

“I should have flashed the guy some cleavage and hiked up my skirt. I could have batted my eyes and made my lips all pouty. I would have CRIED, if I’d thought about it. Why didn’t you guys tell me to CRY? I can weep on demand, you know!

“Why did I tell him we were going to Grandma’s house? I should have said we were racing to the hospital. But, knowing my luck, he’d give us a police escort and accompany me into the emergency room. I’d have had to collapse at the feet of a stranger and sob, ‘Is Uncle Louie all right? Lord have mercy, tell me he’s going to LIVE!'”

As the cop returned, ticket in hand, I thought there might be another way out of this predicament: human error.

“So, did you clock me on radar, officer?” I inquired sweetly.

“Laser” he said, all matter-of-fact-like. “Checked you twice. Aimed my little red light on your back bumper and, boom, I had you.”

Hmm. That didn’t sound too contestable in court.

Handing me the yellow violation notice, he tipped his hat and said, “Now, take it easy and stay out of the fast lane, ma’am.”

And then it hit me. After years of driving around like somebody’s granny, I just got a speeding ticket! Life in the fast lane, baby.

Born to be wild! I’m a rebellious, reckless tempter of fate. Who says 52-year-olds can’t run and gun with the fast crowd?

And that’s why I couldn’t be happier. Ever since the ticket, I’ve felt rejuvenated, reborn, and just a little bit naughty. It’s fantastic!

That is, until I have to pay the $126 fine.