I’m sure you all recognize this sign, Dear Readers. (Taken, by the way, at great peril by yours truly. Did you know that it’s against the law to take a photograph inside a driver’s license facility? I found that out the hard way when an angry representative of the Secretary of State enjoined me from taking any more.)
My visits to these facilities always seem to symbolize a milestone on the highway of Life.
My first driver’s license.
What a traumatic experience.
My New Trier High School best buddy, Steve Gersten, took me for my driver’s license.
Always the merry prankster, Steve was our designated class clown. When we got to Libertyville, he told me to go inside and wait in line. After he shut off the car, he turned on the wipers and turned up radio full-blast. When I came out to the car with the examiner and turned on the ignition, the car exploded. The guy flunked me right there in the parking lot.
“Who brought you?” the examiner asked angrily. I meekly pointed to Gersten laughing in the corner.
“Okay, Wiseguy,” he said. “Show me your license.”
Steve complied by pulling out a Xerox copy- his real license being held as collateral for an earlier traffic violation. The DMV examiner tore up Steve’s Xerox- and gave him another ticket. I have NO idea how we got home.
(Steve now. Like a fine wine, he has improved with age. Less hair, true- but much sleeker. And still a prankster. Just ask any waiter or waitress he has hopelessly confused by changing all our orders non-stop.)
I managed to stay away from the DMV until another milestone.
Taking my children for their driver’s licenses.
Natasha was intense- and intent on scoring 100 on the written AND the driving part. She wasn’t going to be happy with anything less.
Luckily for all concerned- including Jesse White- she did just that.
Nick, on the other hand, was a little more casual. He had forgotten to bring his pink slip and wasn’t even shaken when Jesse White himself made an appearance at the Deerfield facility. After the requisite- and annoying- return trip home to get the pink slip, Nick did get his license.
My next encounter with the Illinois DMV came after I moved back from Colorado. I had to take the written test to get an Illinois driver’s license.
I studied the manual like a fiend. I wasn’t going to let those pesky traffic signs trip me up.
I took the test quickly and handed it back to the examiner with the confidence of the A student I had always been.
Imagine my surprise when he marked the first question wrong in a big red check. Then the next, then the next…
I started to feel woozy with anxiety. How could I get the very first questions wrong?
The room was spinning until I heard him say, “Oops. I must have pulled out the wrong answer key.”
The he re-graded my test all over again.
Natasha would have approved.
My next encounter with DMV was a bittersweet milestone.
I had to take my father to get an Illinois state ID.
His driver’s license had expired and he was too old- in his 90’s- and too infirm to drive any more.
This saddened him and of course, it saddened me. But he still needed an ID so off we went back to Deerfield to have his photo taken and an ID printed.
The whole process took less than 20 minutes. Easy peasy. Like everything involving my father.
My brother, on the other hand, had to take my mother to get her ID.
Not quite so easy.
My mother was, as you may remember, a….challenge.
My mother fought the state of Illinois every step of the way. She was combative, suspicious, paranoid and angry for the hour or so it took my brother to force her through the lines at the DMV.
FINALLY, after fighting, yelling and stalling, my mother had reached the end of the line. And my brother had reached the end of his rope.
All she had to do was sign the form.
And she wouldn’t sign it.
She didn’t want to use the DMV pen. She thought it was germ-laden. She insisted on using her own.
Problem was her pen was at the bottom of her purse. A vast rats’ nest of wallets, glasses, McDonald’s certificates, old anniversary cards, good luck charms, calendars. Just about everything you could ever cram into a purse.
Except a pen.
After ten minutes of a fruitless search, my brother dumped the entire contents of my mother’s purse on the DMV desk. He triumphantly pulled out her pen.
“Sign it!” he screamed. He had become justifiably unhinged.
My latest encounter with the DMV was not quite as dramatic but another notch on Life’s belt.
A senior moment.
I took myself to get a state ID.
I hate having to pull out my driver’s license in the TSA line and Kenny helpfully pointed out that with the state ID, you never have to touch your license at the airport- or practically anywhere else.
My experience was quick, painless and FREE.
Seems that if you’re over 65, the state ID is on the state.
And it never expires.
Sure hope that applies to all ID holders.