A DUI Field Sobriety Test and a Breakup, All in One Night

Top five worst nights of my entire life.

The first part of this Breakup Night From Hell tale is found here:

I discovered the man I loved, who spent the evening talking about blending families, also wanted to see other people. We had been drinking that evening but I was so upset and angry, I stormed out and got in my car.

I drive out of Jeremy’s complex and make a wrong turn in my rage. Realizing I went the wrong way, I switch on my car GPS and figure out where I’m going. When I get to a red light, I grab my cell phone to construct a pissed-off text.

The light turns green but there’s no one behind me so I continue texting. The next time the light turns green again, I pull forward…and see a cop car following behind me.

Fuck.

I immediately toss my phone in the backseat and drive like a perfect citizen. It doesn’t matter; the sirens and lights flash almost immediately.

Panic sets in. I haven’t eaten in days. I’m barely 95 lbs from the weight loss. I downed a bunch of vodka drinks with Jeremy because I didn’t anticipate leaving so soon. This is California and it doesn’t fuck around when it comes to DUIs (Driving Under the Influence.)

The officer does the usual “How are you, when did you last drink, license and registration, please.”

I’m flustered and shaking. I flat-out exclaim that I was told by the man I love that he wants to see other people. “Proof of insurance,” the officer instructs. “Um, it’s on my phone, can I grab it?” I ask.

When he confirms, I reach back fumbling for the phone that I tossed back there. Then in my nervousness, I can’t get the Geico app to log in. In what I’m told later is Pretty Privilege, the cop tells me “It’s fine, I believe you” and walks away to do whatever police stuff he has to do next.

A female cop comes up next and flashes her lights in my face. “Why are your eyes red?” she asks. I know my eyes aren’t red (I haven’t cried yet) but my nose is permanently red because of damaged capillaries when I got nose filler. Not something you can tell a cop so I explain my relationship situation.

“I know you hear all the sob stories, I’m just explaining since you asked,” I tell her. I construct my story about my drinking. I had half a glass of some mixed red sangria drink around 5 pm at dinner with my friends. I ate a dinner roll, some salad, and I split a sandwich. It was a new restaurant by the movie theater near my house. After that, I went to the guy’s house and had the heartbreaking talk.

The cop brings out a white pen and tells me to follow it with my eyes and not my head. I concentrate like a motherfucker but my contact lenses are dry as hell and my nerves are shot. When she moves it up and down, I tell her that I struggle to look all the way up because of my Botox.

I realize that’s the dumbest thing she could hear but I’m not lying. I can’t flex my eyeballs all the way up.

“Grab a jacket, you look cold. Step out of the vehicle.” She tells me. My body will combust from anxiety.

The officer instructs me to sit on the edge of the curb. Another cop car pulls up. “Wait, seriously?” I yell. “This is kind of hardcore, isn’t it?” She tells me that the new police officer is bored and wanted to watch. I feel like an utter criminal with my car parked on the side of a main street with two flashing cop cars as I’m frisked.

When she tells me to sit on the curb, I cautiously sit down while trying to pull my jacket under me. “These are kind of expensive Spanx,” I tell her. For women reading this, they’re the $98 faux leather Spanx. I got them for $67 at a sale years ago. I’m cheap as hell and have tried dozens of dupes but nothing compares to these. And now, they’re ruined from the concrete.

The original cop comes over and tells me how I have to do a series of tests.

First up: the “walk in a straight line” test. That should be a breeze, I’ve done that full-on drunk in heels. Except you have to keep your hands plastered by your side. It’s a strict heel-to-toe situation. There’s counting. When you get to a certain number, you have to turn on your heels (not your toe, which is weird). Then return.

I’m wearing loose booties and my ankles aren’t supported. I have weak ankles as it is. I try and after two steps fail. The female police officer tells me it’s okay to remove my boots. I try again while wearing little ankle socks. With my hands being straight along the side of my body, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done (I can’t even do it now sober). I get a few steps and see a line of ants.

“Um, can I step over that line of ants? That’s kind of gross.” I tell them. I do a little hop. Probably not cool but it also gave me an excuse to fix my weight placement to finish the exercise. When I turn, my ankle socks come off partially because of the resistance from the pavement. As I step heel to toe, my heels are stepping on the other foot’s sock, making it all one floppy mess. But I make it.

The next test is to step with my leg off the ground and count from one thousand onwards until they tell me to stop. Once again, my arms have to be flat on my side. I can’t raise my knee up (like one would do when practicing balancing at home). I have to raise my leg in front of me without bending it. Counting is fine except once I get to one thousand and thirty-something I begin to lose count…why am I doing this for so long?

It’s time for the final test. The breathalyzer. I ask why they didn’t start with that and they tell me that for legal reasons, they have to do everything else. I mention that I had a breath mint which could impact the test and they say that’s a myth, including copper. Frantically thinking about the legal TikTok videos I’ve seen, I ask what would happen if I declined.

“Then we arrest you and have you tested at the station” they reply. Suddenly, reality kicks in. My car will be impounded. My license will be taken away and I won’t be able to drive my kids. This isn’t good. I know I should agree to the test at the station because it buys me time to let the alcohol get out of my system.

I’ve lost obscene weight this week from the Jeremy drama and I’m barely 95lbs. Combined with not eating, there’s no way any alcohol in me is going to plummet in the next hour. It is what it is. I opt for the breathalyzer.

While they prepare the device, I continue babbling about my Jeremy situation and how after nine months of dating, he wanted to plan a future while dating other people. The two remaining cops dispense random relationship advice of the you’ll-find-someone-better variety.

Time to blow in the machine. It’s about the size of a 1980s Walkman. There’s a disposable plastic nub for me to breathe into, “like you’re blowing up a balloon”. I give the faintest blow possible, hoping to not expel the alcohol from my throat.

There’s no point in trying to game this device and yet, here we are. It’s like blowing into a child’s kazoo. It needs full force. I slowly increase windpower, figuring I can escalate to the bare minimum needed. Eventually, I hear a “pop” and the device flashes.

As the original cop does his magical police work in his vehicle, I whine to the other two that I can’t handle not knowing the number. “If your story is true, then your number will be below 0.08,” the second cop tells me. I see the play: keep saying “if your story is true” to get the truth from a suspect.

After what feels like forever, I’m told I breathed a 0.04.

Thank. God.

They hand me my license and registration back. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” the female officer asks because she’s the only one who has heard my entire relationship drama. I assure them that I’m fine and will cry as soon as I get home.

“Am I free to leave?” I ask, remembering my TikTok legal education. All three of them tell me I’m free to go while giving me a final “forget that guy, you’ll find someone better!” cheer as I drive away.

I get home, lay on my bed, and sob hysterically.