One of the joys of turning forty is that you have to renew your drivers' license.
Of course I got there sort of early -- but that didn't mean that two of the three Oregon DMV employees were on some sort of break and the one remaining one was locked into a twenty minute investigation of one woman's birth cirtificate.
I looked around to see if there way any paper-work I needed to do hanging from a rack on the wall. There wasn't.
One of the questions they ask you when you renew is your place of birth. Mine is Mangla, Pakistan. So I'm sort of expecting raised eyebrows or at least goons in trenchcoats to ask me a few extra questions. It doesn't help that Mark says my passport photo has a "I will die for the cause" look.
So I'm thinking how am I going to say, "Mangla, Pakistan" to the woman behind the counter and I'm trying to figure out is she a humorless, an efficient, or a stressed state employee.
Luckily, since I'm naturally nice and bouyant (dispite the twenty minutes as the third in line), she is, too.
After a few more minutes, it's time for my picture. I wore a black turtleneck and brushed out my long hair. When I got the license back, the hologram O in Oregon made it look like I had a gigantic earing on.
"Eeek!" I said loudly, "I look like a pirate." It was hard not to sing *Gypsies, Tramps and Theives* (between the hair and the O, I looked like Cher.)
I can see it now. "Honest, officer; I've never been anywhere *near* a wagon of a travelling show; see, scan my license -- I was born in Pakistan."
Maybe with that O I can become the new mascot for the Oregon Ducks.
I'm sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere.
John Burridge (via palm)
Respice, adspice, prospice.