DMV Express

Among other things that are crappy about this particular year is The State had to further drive home, so to speak, the fact that I am aging by sending me a reminder that my driver’s license was about to expire. Instead of the usual filling out a check and sending in the paperwork, they now require multiple pieces of documentation to verify your identity and that you submit this information in person. I did my usual efficient thing and procrastinated until the day before it expired. I prepared myself that today would be devoted to visiting the DMV (that department that has now taken on the role of proctologist).

The second I walk through the door, I take a number, expecting it to be number 408 (cursing myself for only bringing a book and my iPod and not the laptop, too). I look at the ticket—C09. I look up at the counter—05. What? Is that like as in A05? Do we go through each letter of the alphabet, so I have A and B yet to sit through until they come back around to C? Or could it possibly be the letter is superfluous? I sit down, start to settle in and decide I’ll wait to see what they yell out.

I’ve been there a total of maybe 2 minutes, and they yell out in rapid fire succession,

“Number 6…number 7…number 8.”

What? I haven’t even unraveled my iPod earbuds yet. I figure number 8 will be the kicker. There’ll be something ridiculously complicated about number 8, like that person in the express lane that buys 200 dozen boxes of Kleenex and has a coupon for each one and doesn’t understand that “15 item limit” doesn’t mean 15 different kinds of items and that the operative word in the phrase “express lane” is EXPRESS. Just as I’m finishing this thought,

“Number 9.”

That's me !?! I walk up to the counter, submit the required DNA, urine and feces samples to verify my identity, and that yes, the Department of Motor Vehicles’ records are correct—I have been a licensed driver in this state for the last 24 years.

“That’ll be $39. Go ahead and take a seat and they’ll call you for your picture.”

AH-HA! Now comes the interminable wait. I give up on untangling my earbuds and take out my book.

“T.M.”

I look around the waiting area to verify that they are indeed calling MY name. No one else seems to be responding, so I wisely surmise they must be calling me.

Two minutes later, I’m standing outside the DMV with a temporary driver’s license in hand, admiring my fetching new photo.

For all the appearance of an anal exam, I didn’t feel a thing.