Commonly, the DMV is synonymous with torture. In movies it is portrayed as the pinnacle of doldrums: flickering, fluorescent lights, a grimy scene washed in blue/green hues, a large room populated by the most dubious types, linoleum floors, beads of sweat, tapping feet, popping gum, screaming children, numbers called, general confusion.
I spent Saturday morning in this lovely setting, waiting for my number to be called. Finally (finally!) the glorious sound came over the loudspeaker: A-25! Valiantly, with hopeful anticipation, I marched up to the window only to learn that I did not have the proper credentials needed to renew my license. And upon further examination of the list of acceptable documents to prove my Virginia residency, I realized it may be months before I can obtain such a paper. Is my situation really that unique?
Twice I have done my hair and makeup for these people. Yes, this was my second foray into hell. What is the problem?? Is it me? It must be me.
And to the guy who sat down next to me for the five minutes I tried courteously not to move: Yes, the stench of booze and cigarettes IS detectable - even at 11:00 in the morning.
Adding to my misery: I am officially driving around with an expired license. Ugh.
On the plus side, I ride my bike to work. So there, DMV! Victory is MINE! Ha!
dude, i effing hate the dmv. and i HATE feeling pressure to look nice when you know you're going to get your picture taken! i mean, it feels the next four years of your life are dictated by that photo. :)
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