I was stopped at a sobriety checkpoint last night on my way home from an office party.
The officer asked where I was coming from and whether I’d been drinking. I said no. He looked at my face for a beat, smiled, and said, “I believe you. You can go.”
I hadn’t been drinking. I don’t drink alcohol at all. My gastroenterologist suspects I have an alcohol intolerance—alcohol destroys my stomach—and being on a GLP-1 injection only makes the effects worse. So the answer was honest, but the instant acceptance still surprised me.
I found the whole interaction oddly amusing. There were signs well before the stop announcing the checkpoint, so anyone who had been drinking already knew how to avoid the area. Which made me wonder: what was it about my face that made him decide not to look any further?
The amused expression, maybe. It’s gotten me into trouble before. I was once dismissed from jury duty because I apparently failed to conceal my opinion that the defense attorney was an idiot. I forgot my poker face that day.
Gemini says I have an “infectious glow.” My daughter thinks that might be true. I call bullshit.
I thanked the officer and drove on, still amused—once again reminded that my face has a habit of telling the truth before I do.
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