To get our licensed renewed at the MVA we practice our driving skills: stop, go … yield

It happens every four years, has to do with the government and seems to take forever.

Not the presidential election. I'm talking about getting my driver's license renewed.

Last week I suddenly realized that I had one day left before my driver's license would expire. I had to get myself to the local Motor Vehicles Administration office and fast.

Once there, I circled the parking lot over and over, waiting for a place to park. Just as I was about to run out of gas, somebody pulled out right in front of me. Some guy in a Humvee tried to drive over the roof of my car to steal the space, but I got it.

Entering the MVA, I encountered a miserable multitude of people of every description that seemed to be an organism unto itself. Hopelessness and exhaustion hung in the air like an Airwick scented candle. I thought of what my great-grandparents must have seen upon arriving at Ellis Island: huddled masses clutching satchels, crying babies, toddlers running amok. And everyone in search of the American Dream: a legal photo ID.

I took my place at the back of the line and gave up all hope of being home by lunchtime.

Slowly, I inched toward the window. When I was next, they opened another window and 40 people rushed ahead of me. Eventually I did reach an MVA employee who took my sweaty, crumpled renewal form, stapled a number to it, and told me to go sit down. Just like that: staple, go, sit. Our government at work.

While I sat waiting for B69 to be called, I engaged in a little people-watching. One woman was pushing a baby stroller. Over the course of five minutes, I heard her explain to 37 total strangers that she knew her baby was missing a shoe, thank you, and that it was in the car.

In row six sat a dusty skeleton still clutching a license renewal form with the number B68 stapled to it. And I could swear that, while I was awaiting my turn, two tots grew up and entered kindergarten.

To my left a mom was bouncing a baby on her knee. This baby had a peculiar talent; she could give out a shriek 12 tones higher and 70 decibels louder than a dog whistle. And, apparently, she could keep it up indefinitely.

One shriek shattered the lenses in all the cameras used to take license photos. Another brought a pack of howling dogs to the front doors of the building, scratching desperately to get in. A few had blood trickling out of their ears. I did, too.

Finally a disembodied voice rose above the dull roar of the multitudes, saying, "B69, go to window 13."

"No good can come of this," I thought. But I high-tailed it over to window 13 before the voice could change its mind.

I filled in the blanks, paid the fee, and had my picture taken. I'd applied make-up that morning because I wanted my new photo to be better than the old one — that is, to look less like Uncle Festus from the Addams Family and more like me. Unfortunately, I'm mascara-challenged, so, my new license bears a picture of me with a cheery smile and two large black hairy spiders on my eyes.

Clinging to the last shreds of my sanity, I left the MVA with a new driver's license and a better appreciation for what cows go through while being herded to slaughter.

Now all I have to do is remember to get my license renewed again in four years — when the next presidential election begins.

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