Preface. It's hard to believe, I know, but my people-reading skills are not what they once were. It used to be that I could deduce a person's intentions from twenty feet away. I could tell if they were going to smile or sneer, ignore or engage. But these days, forget it. See that man walking towards me? I don't know if he's going to fall at my feet and sing a love song (en español, por favor) or hit me over the head with his newspaper. Or both. Makes a girl want to run for cover, I tell you. But I persevere...
The DMV was crazy: you woulda thought Jessica Simpson was inside showing off her Agent Provacateur undies. Luckily, I had a 10:35 appointment. True, I hadn't eaten anything and my hair was in a ponytail (Thursday is Ponytail Day), but because of my 10:35 appointment, I was sure I'd be out of there in time to grab a bite and pick up the girls at preschool. I am that together.
You can't imagine my smugness as I passed throngs of appointment-less people and strode--at random--to Window #7. I asked to be directed to the window where one with a 10:35 appointment should report. I was greeted with an expressionless stare which I believe was meant to convey the message that I had willfully and maliciously breached DMV protocol. I smiled; Mr. Happy did not. "Window #1," he said. He said it like I smelled bad.
The woman at Window #1 appeared perfectly pleasant. I approached with a tentative smile. "I have a 10:35 appointment," I chirped.
"For what?"
"I need to renew my..."
"Your WHAT," she said, cutting me off. "License or registration?!!"
Now, was that necessary? The snapping? I told Mary Poppins that I needed to renew my license. She handed me a number. The same kind of number being held by all the people who did not have a 10:35 appointment.
"What is this for?" I said. "I have an appointment, right?"
"Someone will call that number!" she screeched.
"Why are you yelling at me?" I wanted to cry; I truly did.
She looked up at me over her glasses. "Fill out the form while you wait."
And I was dismissed. The combination of hunger, ponytail, and unpleasant interaction with two extraordinarily mean people had now created a wompdinger of a headache. I called my husband to report this abusive situation. "They're just not motivated, Ver," he said. The empathy this engendered lasted only two of the forty-seven minutes I waited for my number to be called.
At Window #15, I paid my money without smiling. The woman directed me to Window #18, where my picture would be taken. I stood in line behind fourteen other people. When the line had whittled down to only five people before me, I glanced at the paperwork from the woman at Window #15. Where my name should have appeared, it said, "Sandra Ponce."
Oh. My. God.
I turned to the man behind me. Sixty years old, brown V-neck sweater, glasses. I could win this man over. I could. I went into damsel-in-distress mode. "Oh my goodness! The woman at Window #15 made a mistake on my paperwork. Can you please save my place in line while I go back?"
"No."
Am I so charmless? (Please tell me. Because if I am, I'm going have to re-think my entire approach to daily living.) I tried again. "But I...I only have 20 minutes before I need to pick up my daughters, and I still haven't taken the written test. I would appreciate it. Please?"
"Um, no."
"You can go in front of me. Please, sir."
"No."
And that is how I lost my place in line at Window #18. Back at Window #15, I said, "This isn't my name."
"Well, what is your name?" As if I had lied about my name. As if it were my fervent desire to stay trapped in the DMV for an entire day.
"My name is the name I wrote on the form I handed you."
Without apology, she fixed the error. "I have to pick up my daughters right now," I said. "When I come back, do I just get in line at Window #18?"
"If you don't get your picture taken right now, you have to start all over again."
"But if I get my picture taken I can come back and just take the test, right?"
"Right."
I looked at the line at Window #18. Twenty people at least. "I have to pick up my daughters right now. There's no way I can stand in that line."
Maybe she could see I was about to burst into tears, I don't know. She said, "Well, come on. I'll take it for you right now."
What was this? Was this kindness? "Oh, thank you! Thank you so much."
She took my picture and then stared at the screen for a second. "Your hair is nicer in the picture on your old license."
"Excuse me?"
"Your hair. It's better in the old picture."
This was really the breaking point, my people. After all I had endured, the last thing I needed was beauty feedback from a woman with corn-nut breath, beanie babies littering her workstation, a stash of M & M's in her top right-hand drawer, and poorly applied eyeliner.
"It's Ponytail Day," I hissed.
She looked at me like I was crazy which, in fact, I was.
Afterword. Yes, the DMV was full of surprises, but perhaps the most surprising thing of all is that I returned a few hours later, proceeded directly to Window #17, and passed the written test. I am an outlaw no more.
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