The DMV

There are few things in this world that will force me to go to a government owned facility. Most of the reasons would involve legal implications and most likely handcuffs. But for me to willingly go to any version of these locations would require wild horses, and me being dragged. Much to my chagrin however, I ended up in one of these blessed buildings today: the DMV.

Now, the reason I had to go to the DMV was that it was high time I got my name changed back. After months of explaining that "yes, I have a different name than is on my driver's license because I am, in fact, a secret agent" or "well, I WAS in the Witness Protection Program, but looks like THAT'S shot, thanks for pointing it out!", I got in my car this morning, determined to be Ainsley Cartwright again. As we all know, it's well worth a 45 minute drive to go to a metro-Atlanta DMV versus one inside the perimeter. Given I do not want to buy drugs, turn to prostitution, or join a gang, the Marietta DMV was going to be my best, safest bet.

As I walked in, I was given a slip of paper with "C207" printed on it. This is when I notice that, in the spirit of government run facilities, we're going to make this literally as complicated as possible. The goal of these institutions is to confuse you into compliance. Should you at any point catch on to what's going on, you better keep it to yourself. They are NOT scared to lose paperwork, set file cabinets on fire, or start shooting should you get out of line.The goal of this little numbering system is to keep you forever guessing if you're next.

As soon as I sit down, I see what can only be described as a large toddler finishing up the drivers test and waiting to get his picture taken, and it dawns on me. This large child is 15, and getting his permit. Queue the quarter life crisis music. John Mayer has a box set of compilations with this theme in mind I believe. And if he does, my mom can get it for you at Costco.

As time passed on, I realized that the letter on my slip of paper corresponded to the purpose of your visit. So I kept my eyes peeled for my team: Team Name Change "C". I then started to notice that certain windows always got the letter C. So certain window workers spent their whole day on an emotional roller coaster, saying either "congrats on the marriage!" or "I'm sure he deserved the divorce", or "Hello Chad Ochocinco, good game this weekend". The woman with C206 was pregnant. There's no explanation for this that would make her encounter with "Walter W, Team C window worker" not unbelievably awkward.

Then comes my turn. Walter was MADE for this job. He couldn't have been more pumped about the dramatic stories that he got at his window, and was really ready for me to lay down a doozie, as if everyone in the name change game is DYING to vent in a public area. I didn't deliver, and could tell this disappointment was going to be taken out on me in the form of my picture.


I was told to stand against a wall, look at a blue dot, not into the camera, and smile for 5 solid seconds. Following this to a "T", I received my license and my punishment for lack of interesting story: By "looking at the blue dot" I appeared in my picture to be legally blind. You know how when you're talking to a blind person they're always "looking at you" but their eyes are a solid 5 degrees off of where they should be? That's my picture. Also, Georgia has decided to make the picture zoomed in enough to almost make it to the scale of my actual head. Regardless, I was free to leave, with the promise that my license would be in the mail in a month. DMV in cahoots with the post office. What could ever go wrong there?

As I left the DMV, I felt lucky. Lucky to be alive, lucky it wasn't 5 pm, lucky I had my name back. It was a team effort today by Team Name Change C. And I was privileged to be a part of it.