Of all the requisite hells in this world, there is nothing quite like a trip to Dante’s lowest level: the DMV. Dental examinations, traffic court appearances and exploratory medical procedures with the dreaded ‘scopy’ suffix are all slight inconveniences when compared to the DMV.

There are certainties: surly dispositions, long lines, arguments. There are uncertainties: Will I make someone cry? Will someone make me cry?

The sad thing about my most recent visit is that it was entirely avoidable. I was the victim of the most ubiquitous of all afflictions: procrastination. I’ve realized that the trouble with procrastination is that somewhere along the way it morphs into negligence—at least in the eyes of Johnny Law.

You see, I let my license expire—by over a year. When this happens in Maryland, one’s required to take all of the tests again.
My companion—and I use that term loosely because I was required by law to have a companion—was my seventeen-year-old sister.

My sister’s role—as a legally, licensed driver—was to drive my car to the starting point of the driving course (if I passed the written exam) and wait there until the examiner is ready to administer the test, at which time my sis will relinquish the driver’s seat—of my @#$%ing car—where I will begin the driving segment.

The trouble with the initial queue is that you are not waiting to get on a roller-coaster, see a movie or anything else remotely rewarding; you’re waiting—to wait.

While in line, a sheepish woman comes up to my sister and me and says that she was in line but had to use the restroom. I swear the look in her eyes was that of sheer terror as she waited for a response from the jury. She suspected that if we thought her a liar and trying to cut in line, the entire group would inflict grievous bodily harm upon her—which was accurate.

While in line, I hear a parent whisper in their son’s ear, “This is why you don’t want the government to run healthcare.” Everyone is miserable: patrons, workers, companions—save for my sister who can’t stop giggling. I can’t really blame her though. As with most comedy, the situation is hilarious—unless you’re the one in the pickle.

After they examine the five forms of paperwork that proved my identity, I was granted access to the waiting room.

The worst part of this leg is that I am allowed to contemplate the fact that I might fail. If I do fail it will follow me around the rest of my life. It will be brought up at every social gathering: college roommates spending the night in the drunk-tank, a cousin who passed-out at his own wedding, Jordan failing his driver’s test at the age of… Every now and then my state of miserable meditation is broken by screams coming from an irate patron. After all, it was only a matter of time.

Finally, three hours in, my number is called. When I tell the lady why I am there she gives me a look of disgust, a look that only mothers give when they’re “not mad but just disappointed.” I realize that I have no good excuse to offer and contemplate telling her I was in the Army, thus, out of the country for two years. Who wouldn’t find that sympathetic? I realize that would be sinking to a new level and don’t want to mess with karma—that and I had no paperwork to corroborate my story.

Luckily, I pass the written test with flying colors and am ready for the driving exam.

I have my licensed driver—who’s still grinning—pull my car around to the designated spot. We wait in line as a sixteen-year-old drives the course with impeccable precision. Punk.

It is here that I meet a mythical creature. The examiner is one of the most pleasant people I have ever met. I have heard rumors of their existence but have never come across them. Perhaps they roam in far off lands with the Yeti and the unicorn.

I find her disposition relaxing and it allows me to ace the course. My sister and I go back inside where we wait some more and I am issued a legal license. After this my sister takes her rightful spot—in the passenger seat—and we drive off into the sunset.