Today’s post begins with the most exciting first line in Substack herstory: I went to the DMV this week to get a REAL ID because I saw the May 7th deadline was approaching fast.
When I asked loved ones if they’d already gotten their REAL IDs, I was shocked to learn I was the last person in my friend group to deal with this. This rattled me. Am I on top of my life or not?! I have friends that haven’t gone to the dentist in decades, friends that drive around in unregistered cars, friends that adopt parrots that will outlive them! I, on the other hand, think of myself as together when it comes to accomplishing boring chores. Boring chores are my sweet spot! I crush boring chores! You know that joke about how writers always have a clean house because they’ll do anything besides make themselves write? That’s my relationship to boring chores. I love making a return, getting my oil changed, doing laundry. Finite, achievable tasks. Much easier than writing a novel. In fact, more than once I’ve thought of quitting writing and starting a business doing Amazon returns for people too overwhelmed to do them for themselves. What’s more satisfying or exhilarating than completing a return? Certainly not writing a book.
But getting one’s self to the DMV. That’s an advanced ring of Dante’s Inferno. In fact, if ever asked to do a new translation of The Inferno, I’d make it clear the journey took place in an epic DMV.
But I had no choice, hell or no hell, I needed to get a REAL ID. I consoled myself that at least I would have a chance to get a government ID photo that didn’t include a herpe sore under my nose as the last two unfortunately had, despite being taken decades apart. I got in my car and headed to the DMV blasting Tara Brach.
I’ve been driving since I was sixteen and have lived a lot of places, so I’ve been to DMVs in Los Angeles, Brooklyn, San Diego, San Francisco, and rural Pennsylvania. All of them were awful, but the most haunting DMV experience took place in Pawtucket, Rhode Island.
I’d just moved from Brooklyn to Providence and had gotten a job teaching adults basic literacy. I went to the DMV after work and brought the math book with me because I needed to stay a chapter ahead of the smartest girl in the class. That bitch, Claire! Always showing off with her pre-Algebra skills. I was terrible in math and regularly sobbed trying to re-learn how to reduce fractions. When I got to the DMV I was immediately filled with dread because it was so crowded. I was going to be here awhile. Hoards of people stood against the walls. None had visible herpe sores, unlike me. I scanned the room looking for a chair so I could at least practice my fractions but they were all taken. A trip to the DMV with no chairs, and before my first cell phone? I was truly raw dogging it.
Miraculously, I spotted an open chair across the room and bolted for it before someone else could grab it. I made it victorious, and sat down trying not to look smug. One second later I was hit with the most rancid smell. Where was it coming from? I looked around and saw a pile of vomit on the floor about two feet from my chair. That was why the seat was empty. Exactly, everyone in the DMV had decided it was better to stand then sit next to the vomit. But, I had a plan. I would beat the DMV at their own brutal game.