I exit my car with a face full of sorrow—I know I won’t be driving for the next few longer-than-usual hours. I have begun my adventure to replace my driver’s license.
I enter the Secretary of State and see a collection of young and old faces that have no relation to me, yet they all seem to express the same emotion as me: dread.
I drag my feet as I approach the kiosk to get myself in line to be helped. I feel… Oh, look a parent dragging their crying child into the congested room.
I feel as if I’m signing in for an “hours of sadness” experience provided by the people who want nothing more than to go home and find a new job.
I approach a lady who is checking documents, and I can’t help but feel a little sorry for her and the other people who seem to be just as grumpy as me. I don’t think I would last more than one shift here.
“66 people are in front of you,” my iPhone says. I wish that said 66 dollars have been added to your bank account, I think to myself as I take a second to let out a quiet giggle. I know I am going to be here for a while, so I try to make the most… Oh lovely, a cell phone ringing at full volume. I just want silence—silence in the room and silence in my head because I am getting a headache from this adventure—I need a nap.
After what seems like years, I am finally called up by the voice in the TV saying, “now serving number two, eight, zero, seven.” I march up to the counter with my head held high as I prepare to get my new license and then get out as quickly as possible.
I begin to unpack my envelope filled with all my important papers to… I haven’t eaten since first lunch. I’m going to stop what I’m doing and quickly search my bag for a banana Laffy Taffy.
I finish all of the required steps to get my new license and I am flooded with joy as I prepare to drive home.
This joy is quickly drained by the rush-hour traffic.
Regardless, I am glad that I will not have to go back to the Secretary of State for a long time, or at least until I lose my wallet again.