Division of Motor Vehicles.

I had to go the damn DMV this morning to renew my driver’s license. I’d totally forgotten about this because the notice I’d gotten in the mail a couple of months ago ended up buried under a mountain of crap on my desk. And I never use my desk anymore, except to pile crap on. Sunday night I found it while digging though said crap pile for reasons that now slip my mind.

I live in small city, so I don’t have to put up with the labyrinthine horrors of people living in places like New York or Chicago have to endure when they have to go to the DMV. But, despite the more laid-back small town approach, I still find any trip to the DMV agonizing.

They assign you a number when you come in and when your number comes up it’s announced over a loudspeaker and displayed on a big LED screen. I was B107. I sat and waited. Eventually they called B105. Then B106. The anticipation was palpable! Then… A102. C409. E700. Clearly the numbers were being pulled from a barrel by a chimp in a back room.

After my number was called I went the whole boring rigmarole and paid my 20 bucks. Since I had to hurry up and get out of there so I wouldn’t be late for class, I decided to keep my old photo, something I’ve never done.

The old photo from five years ago was taken when I was suffering from some kind of mystery illness that made all food taste terrible. I hadn’t eaten in days. My skin in the photo is somewhere between light gray and very pale beige. Also I’d been working third shift for about two weeks and had just been put back on my old job on second shift.

Since I was sick, all I wanted to do was lie on the couch until it was time for work. I forced myself to the DMV and got my license renewed and then went back to the couch for a few more hours.

Later that day at my job, I worked for about two hours and then started feeling dizzy and seeing spots. I tried to fight it off, but I couldn’t. I staggered to the bathroom feeling like I was going to puke or pass out. Maybe both. In the end my parents had to come and pick me up because I was so out of it. And since I didn't go to a doctor, I never did find out what was wrong with me.

So I get to carry the sick guy photo around in my wallet for another five years.