17 Again

I had the "pleasure" of visiting the DMV today.

I was confident that it would be fairly empty and that I'd be in and out of that office in just a few short minutes. Did I mention I was also on glue?!?

What was waiting for me on the other side of the tinted glass doors was the exact opposite of what I had been expecting. Empty chairs and shiny faces were no where to be found. I stepped inside of a very busy, fairly packed room. The boredom could not be wiped from the faces of my cohorts. The drudgery was plain to see: glossy eyes, slumped bodies, and a high volume of sweat pants.

There are several places where people-watching is prime and the DMV office is one such place. The mall and theme parks allow you to witness family dynamics and dysfunctional behavior. Whereas the DMV offers a different kind of voyeuristic fun. Here, you can watch people wither away as they wait. The fun of people-watching there is making internal bets with yourself.

And with the plethora of people, I had my pick this afternoon. Everyone was in front of me, so clearly, I figured I would have a full turn around before I left. Instead of focusing on who I would beat to the window, I tried to figure out who would try to strike up a conversation with a stranger (lady with a rat's nest of a hairstyle) and who would try to act superior and above it all by brandishing a cell phone (well dressed hipster).

There was one man who was particularly chatty, so I figured because of his upbeat attitude, he was either a cheerful person by nature or he actually conned someone to come with him. The more I watched him, the more I became convinced he had an appointment. His Promethean move annoyed me, so I turned my attention to the actual workers.

Of course they looked as lively as all of their patrons. Drab clothing and lifeless visages. Nothing exciting on their desks like figurines, photos, or flowers. It was like they had no personality. Their reputations are apparently justified. I watched the lady that would later help me process my paperwork. She was drenched in brown - a whole pantsuit - that actually matched her hair. Seriously, a Hollywood costumer couldn't stage a better character.

As I watched her, I saw a smile. Not just a little upward crack of the lip that one would expect as a cordial end to a transaction, but a nearly Cheshire-like grin. Gleaming white teeth. It was nearly 30 minutes into my wait and here was someone who was genuinely happy - the first one of my tenure in the waiting area. And of course, it belonged to a teenager the only group that could show happiness in this office. I read his lips proudly proclaim his age: 15 and a HALF.

Oh those extra six months. They make such a difference, don't they? I can't remember the last time I announced my age and didn't use a whole number. It's been a long time. Eons.

As this man-child, who will soon be on the road behind the wheel, furiously nodded his head in optimism, I watched Tan Tess sigh deeply and ask the requisite questions. No shared excitement from her. I want to give her the benefit of the doubt and think she's trying to show this teen the responsibilities of driving. The odd part of the whole scene was that the dad was happy too. He must be tired of being a chauffer.

I waited another 15 minutes before I was helped and never saw another smile until I looked at my reflection in the glass of the exit door.