It’s a dazzling bright sunny day and I have to drive to the supermarket. Oh goody, I get to wear my sunglasses. But they’re not just any sunglasses, mind you. They’re my thousand-yard stare enhancing Ray-Ban Louisiana State Trooper sunglasses.

When I stop at a traffic light I look over and see a black Cadillac Escalade idling next to me. The driver’s a largish businessman balancing a cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee on his steering wheel and yelling into a cell phone. I can’t hear what he’s saying but it’s obvious that he’s distracted, angry and a menace to every driver on the road. So I toot my horn and when the man looks at me I use my Trooper shades to burn a withering stare into his eyeballs. Then I form my fingers to mimic a cell phone against my head and start wiggling them disapprovingly. With a start the man quickly puts his cell phone down – looking very, very nervous.

Maybe it’s the sunglasses, the stern look on my face or my Young Republican haircut, but whatever it is the driver thinks I’m a cop. Now I’ve been mistaken for a police officer before, which I find hilarious since I certainly don’t have the build for it. But whenever I wear my shades the rowdy kids in the 7-11 shut up, the shady looking guy loitering in front of the town library turns away and a real policeman once asked me if I was, “On the Job.” This isn’t necessarily a good thing. I’m only chubby writer. And with my luck I’ll be in a bank when it’s getting robbed and get shot first. But whatever magic my sunglasses possess they somehow scream, “You Will Respect My Authoritah!”

The man in the Escalade mouths a silent “I’m sorry” and when the light turns green he politely lets me go first. Pedaling my adult Big Wheel down the street I smile a big smile.

Sweet.