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.