More Often Than I’d Like to Admit
6/29/20265 min read
An unspeakable thing has happened to me.
The most, biggest “welcome back to the United States” that has ever happened to any human who left this country for a trip of any sorts. I had to go to the DMV.
These people hate their jobs. But who doesn’t? Why do they act like someone is holding a gun to their heads forcing them to work there?
I have had so many jobs. Like, way too many jobs. And while I wouldn’t say I hated all of them, I definitely don’t think I’ve ever loved being at work. About 95% of the jobs I’ve had involved interacting with other people. And yet, you didn’t see me acting like every customer who approached me had personally something to do with my first beloved pet dying. Is it that once people get hired by the government they be let go? Because at any other job, most of these kinda employees would get fired before the second customer of the day approached their window. Pretty sure they could also quit whenever they felt like it if they hate their jobs so much, just like everyone else at any other job.
Anyways, I went to the DMV because I needed to switch my California driver’s license to a New York one. I have lived in New York for over two years. And trust me, I have tried.
I think I’ve made approximately ten trips to the DMV since I moved to NYC. Every single time, something was wrong. Something was missing. They needed another document. Another form. My third-born child. No children? A proof of gayness then. Whatever. Then I lost my California license, which apparently was the one thing that could make this process even worse.
Eventually, I managed to get a replacement mailed to my friend’s address in LA, and he mailed it to me in New York. I walked into the DMV with my shiny new California license thinking this nightmare was finally over. No.
Apparently, your out-of-state license has to be at least six months old before you can transfer it to New York. That was a few weeks before I left NYC to travel and escape the sweet American dream for a few months.
A few months went by. Eventually, I came back to New York refreshed, rejuvenated and ready to deal with the DMV all over again. On a hot afternoon, I went to the Lower Manhattan DMV. This time I had EVERYTHING. I made an appointment. I showed up 15 minutes early. Responsible adult and all.
There were about 20 numbers ahead of me. Great. I went on a short walk. I came back an hour later slightly panicked that maybe I had missed my turn. There were still 16 numbers ahead of me. What exactly is the purpose of an appointment at the DMV?
Eventually I got the magical text that it was my turn and they took my picture. I’m not sure why, because my latest New York ID wasn’t even a year old, but at this point I knew better than to ask questions. I had also spent half the day tanning in Battery Park, so I looked sweaty.
The woman taking the picture didn’t count to three. Didn’t ask “ready?” Nothing. At some point the camera just went click. I considered asking if I could see the picture, but the look on her face made me feel like I’d be asking a homeless person for a dollar.
So whatever. This is apparently my face for the next eight years.
Finally, I got to my window. The woman started asking me approximately 700 questions. I don’t remember what they all were, but I swear at some point she may have asked how many people I’ve slept with.
At the window next to me, another woman was trying to get some kind of identification issue sorted out for her disabled adult son, who couldn’t speak. She had his birth certificate. He was physically there. I don’t remember what document they were missing, but apparently it was important enough that they couldn’t proceed. The mother was furious. Eventually she started yelling about how “immigrants can get passports” but her son couldn’t, even though his birth certificate proved he was born here.
Which... okay. I understand being mad at the DMV. I was also mad at the DMV. Everyone in that room was mad at the DMV. But I’m not entirely sure what immigrants had to do with it. Maybe she was missing a pretty crucial document. Maybe the DMV was being ridiculous. Probably both. Either way, the immigrants were just minding their business. Well, I was. Well. I was trying to mind my business.
The entire waiting room felt like a New York subway car without AC on a hot July afternoon. Everyone was sweaty, annoyed and silently questioning the decisions that brought them there. Except for one girl, apparently. We were standing next to each other. At some point she looked at me and said, “Come here often?” And because I had reached a level of DMV-induced rage where apparently I could no longer recognize flirting, I responded, “More often than I’d like to admit. She was pretty too and seemed like a nice human with a personality. Another thing the DMV has taken from me.
But finally, after two years, approximately ten DMV visits, one lost license, one replacement license shipped across the country, several months of waiting, three months abroad and half a day in Lower Manhattan...
I GOT MY NEW YORK DRIVER’S LICENSE.
I walked outside and immediately texted a bunch of my friends about everything that had happened. Then I got tacos.
Out of all the things I missed while traveling throughout Asia and Australia, I want to say tacos are pretty high on the list. Not higher than my friends, though.