Don't Get Out Of The Car, Ma'am

Last night, the SJG leaves dance class.  I get in my car, I turn the key, I put on my lights, I signal.  Do I notice the car following me down the street?  Yes, ma'am.  How about when I turn down the alley?  Yep.  Am I worried?  Have you met me?  Of course.  The police lights flash.  I pull over.  I'm thinking, "Tail light?"  Two cops get out and make their approach.  I roll down the window.  "Don't get out of the car, ma'am," one of them says.  This is not the time to bring out the Woody Allen, "I have a terrific problem with authority" thing.  So I say nothing.  He asks for my driver's license, my registration, my insurance, my shoe size.  "I'm a six, six and a half.  What'd I do, officer?"  "Is this your car, ma'am?"  "Yes."  "How long have you had this car, ma'am?" I fumfer.  This is getting weird.  The specific dates elude me.  "Uh, well, we leased it and then bought it."  "Do you have current insurance?  This shows it's expired, ma'am."  Again with the ma'am.  Is this the universe's way of reminding me I'm old and getting older by the second?  I reach for my wallet in my handbag.  The other officer is on the passenger side.  "Will you roll down the other window, ma'am?"  I roll down the other window, take out my wallet, show them the current card.  By now, it's 9:45 p.m.  I want to get home in time to see "Smash."  I don't mention that.  He tells me there's a hefty warrant out for some guy I've never met in my life -- and my license plate number comes up with his name.  I want to say, "Are you sh*tting me, officer?"  But I don't.  I offer the more respectful, "Wow.  That's bizarre."  He tells me to get my tush to the DMV and let them handle it, and there's a fine for removing the warrant.  When I get home, I surprise hubby with the story of my brush with the law.  We spend the next hour obsessing, trying to figure out how this could've happened to me, the SJG, of all people.  Just the universe, effin' with me.  The mystery continues.