Last week marked a momentous occasion- I finally bought my own car. Pressured by my parents (whether directly- "Get your own car"- or indirectly- "You have to drive the truck now. And it needs to be filled with 89"), I finally gave in. It's a cutie pie little Mazda 6 and I loooove it. Mainly because it has AC and a working radio, luxuries I have been living without for the past 8 months.
One thing I've begun to realize about myself is that although I am a procrastinator, once I decide to do something I want to get it done FAST. Buying a car was no different. I did the whole thing in less than a week, and that's including getting approved for a loan, getting car insurance, changing to a NC driver's license, and actually purchasing the car. I bet you can guess which one was the least amount of fun...
Yup. Going to the DMV. Twice, actually. The first time I went, it took me over an hour to get there because they closed the branch I originally wanted to go to without telling anyone. I was scouring a sketchy plaza in East Charlotte for about 45 minutes before I realized this. Already late, I arrived to another location, ready to get it all done in one day. Impossible.
"We need proof of your full middle name."
Middle names don't matter in New York, apparently, because it doesn't appear on my SS card or my driver's license. In the South, it matters. In the South, when you get pulled over for speeding, it is imperative that the police officer knows whether to address me as "Sara Ellie" or "Sara Elizabeth". An initial is not enough. I think you can sense the irritation. I ended up staying just to get the tests out of the way. It's pretty pathetic that the hardest part was the vision test. What am I, an 85-year-old woman?
Coming back the next day with the proper identification still resulted in a long wait, which was okay because I was informed that they only accept cash (of course), that there was no ATM there (of course), and that I would have to cross the treacherous street to a sketchy gas station in order to get some (of course). Oh, and if I wasn't back when my ticket was called, I would have to get a new one and start the whole process over. Awesome.
After almost getting in a car accident, getting money, and waiting another 15 minutes, I finally got to the counter where they take your information to issue you your license. The attendant was a 65-year-old man who kept calling me munchkin.
"What have we got here? Oh, a New York ID. God, I love getting rid of these. Nothing good ever comes from New York. Where does this say you're from? Painted Post? What the heck did they do, paint a post and call it a town? That's almost as bad as Buffalo."
"Actually, that's where my mom is from."
"I'm sorry. Is your dad from Tepee? Wouldn't surprise me..."
One thing it made me realize is how grateful I am that when I don't like my job, I can at least kind of fake it. People can say, "Oh, what a cute age!" and even though I want to punch them in the kidneys, I can nod and say, "YestheyareverycuteandfunnyandneverannoyingIlovethem." When you work at the DMV, you're not fooling anyone. No one who works there comes home at 5:00 and says, "Wow, what an enjoyable day I had making people want to throw me into rush hour traffic." Or, "I had so much fun getting daggers shot at me from people I barely know!" People know you don't like your job, just as much as you know that people don't like the DMV. There is no pretending. Which is probably why the DMV is such a miserable place.
Anyway, I finally got my license, or at least the temporary one until the real one comes in the mail. Goodbye, NY ID that I could roll up into a ball and put in my pocket. It's the standard, plastic driver's license for me now, complete with a beach in the background and my middle name as prominent as my first and last.
At least it will go well with my new car.
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