Last week I had to stand in possibly the quickest court hearing I have ever been to. Actually, now that I think about it, it's the only court hearing I've ever been to. I guess I can't count watching Judge Judy as any sort of legal experience.

But by far most of my time was spent sitting in the surprisingly upbeat white and blue painted walls of the court's waiting room. For a place that on a regular basis sees criminals, delinquents, and an onslaught of society's mistakes, you would think that it would be a desolate small room with grey walls and framed posters of court room etiquette and legal procedures, or at least that's what I half expected.

After a short briefing and quick negotiation with my substitute patrol officer, I sat quietly in the waiting room flipping through a dated version of homes and gardens magazine. I looked around the room at the unfortunate people who were seated beside me, either staring at the walls, the clock, or another out dated magazine. I looked down at my tight jeans and black striped top, I was clearly the best one dressed there, or at least the only one who put forth some effort and wore something a little different than sweat pants and an oversized tee-shirt.

I looked up from reading an article on interior design after hearing the court room door opened, then slammed shut. An older woman walked out of the court room, her hair was obviously bleached blond, she wore a long pink skirt and a floral top reminiscent of something my grandmother would wear. She walked up to the secretary and started mumbling obscene words underneath her breath.

"Dirty lying bastard." I'd heard her say. I didn't want to pay attention to her, but I couldn't help it. I looked at the acne scars on her face and her makeup tossed on top. I used to always think that everything would somehow get better with time, including makeup skills. It would only make sense that someone who has been wearing makeup since their teen years would be a pro by their late 40s. But I guess this is some sort of phenomenon that can only be explained through one caustic error that resulted in my failed math final senior year. I studied night and day for at least two weeks, I had gone over the material over and over again, and by the time I had taken the final, I thought for sure that I was a math expert. A couple days later I saw my results, a 46 out of a possible 100. I couldn't figure out what I could have possibly done wrong, I had studied and practiced, and I knew that I should have had an A. I went to my teacher and asked to see the test, which was soaked in red marker. I had studied and practiced, but I studied and practiced all of my mistakes. Which I guess in turn means that no matter how long you practice something, it doesn't always make you an expert.

She stood at the secretary's window scheduling a second court date. This time she was announcing how she was wronged. I didn't feel as bad listening in, after all she was talking loudly to herself, I could have been her sympathetic ear, if she had noticed me sitting to the side behind her. Sometimes it makes me wonder why people always feel like they have to make a generalized announcement after they've been wronged. It's not like I care that your husband is a lying cheating bastard or that your boyfriend never calls.

By the time the officer walked out of the blue painted doors of the courtroom I was so entranced by this woman's fury that I almost didn't noticed that he called my name. I tossed homes and gardens back on the crafty little bookshelf and walked toward to the entrance way. I noticed a sign out front which read, "When in court turn off cell phones and pagers" I panicked, my cell phone was on and I couldn't turn it off now, if I reached into my purse they might think that I was about to pull out a glock and seek revenge...or maybe not. But the thought did scare me, what if my phone really did go off in the court room? What would they do? Sanction me? I never get phone calls. It's a wonder why I even own a cell phone. But for some reason, despite my lack of friends, someone would call my phone at that very moment when I was standing in front of a judge and beside a cop.

I walked in and placed my bag on the seat of the chair, hoping that this would somehow muffle my phone's ringer in case of a phone call. I stood in front of the judge and forced an anxious smile across my face.

"Ms. Costello you stand guilty of a moving violation, in which you were driving 72 mph in a 55 mph zone."

Guilty, I hate that word.

"It has come to my attention that you have come to an agreement with the officer to pay a partial fine and to receive two points on your license. Do you agree?"

I wanted to say no. I thought that I might be able to take back everything I had negotiated with the officer and snake my way out of the whole thing, but the words just wouldn't come out of my mouth.

"...yes."

"Ok, then it is final. The court will mail you back a portion of your fine and you will receive two points that will come off your license in one year."

He slammed his gavel and that was it. I walked out of the court room, out of the waiting room and left the building. I sat in my car for a moment, steeped in regret, I knew that I could have done something, but I didn't. Before I imagined myself standing in front of the court room, presenting my innocence in a clear and orderly way, with the judge left in awe of my reasoning skills and a whole slew of on lookers standing from their seats applauding. But instead I just stood there and took it. It made me realize that I've wasted the entire 19 years of my life being pushed around by other people. It made me realize that in the end, passivity isn't the best policy.

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