I had just left a fastfood restaurant's parking lot on Wednesday night after driving through to get a vegetarian sandwich when a car which I thought was going straight turned right and into where I had come from.

The driver, who looked to me like a thug about my age, didn't hide his annoyance at having to maneuver around me because I had slightly blocked his way. He shook his head, clucked his tongue and seemed to contemplate whether he would let himself grow angrier as he shifted gears.

I waved through the window, which was rolled down because it was a summer night too hot for my old car's a/c to handle, smiled apologetically and said, "Sorry." As he drove by, he looked less annoyed and remarked, "Lucky you're pretty!"

I laughed, "Thank you!" and wondered as I drove away what else I could get away with because some people think I'm not so hard on their eyes.

The following night, it seemed my luck had turned. Near the fastfood I had driven through 24 hours earlier, two female cops pulled me over and claimed I was speeding. I told them that according to my car's speedometer, I was driving a little below the speed limit, to which they replied, "It must be off."

"If my speedometer's off, then everyone else's around me must be way off because I'm usually left behind on the road," I thought. But since my apparent charm from the previous night had obviously worn out and the cops didn't set off my gaydar, I bit my tongue. I again took the apologetic stance and said that other than not pulling over sooner because I didn't realize I was the one they wanted to stop, I didn't do anything wrong.

They ran my license, made me take an alcohol breath test and let me off with a warning - for something I still insist I didn't do. Lucky I'm pretty?

Nah. Unlucky I have P plates and look like a stupid teenager.