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With expired license, it's time to get away
(by Christine Thome - April 02, 2009)
BEYOND MY CONTROL, BY CHRISTINE THOME
With expired license, it's time to get away
Last week was the week of expirations. The milk expired, my one house plant expired, John's Playboy subscription expired, because I refused to renew it, and my driver's license expired. Thankfully, no family members expired last week. We'll see what this week brings.
Replacing milk, a house plant and a raunchy subscription are easy enough to do, but renewing a driver's license is only slightly easier than reviving a dead family member.
So I cleared my day and prepared to stand in long lines in an effort to obtain a legal identification that, no matter how much I primped and smiled, would still look like a mug shot from the FBI's Most Wanted poster.
Surprisingly, the line was not too long; there were only five people ahead of me. With nothing to look at but my shoes, I began to earnestly listen to the questions the woman behind the counter was required to ask each license applicant.
"Are you an illegal alien?"
"Have you ever been convicted of terrorism or spent time at Guantanamo Bay?"
"Do you enjoy kicking cute puppies and kittens?"
What I want to know is, who has ever said yes to one of these questions?
By the time it was my turn, I had conjured up a hundred smart-ass comments for each question, but, because my parents raised me to be respectful and polite, I knew I had to keep them to myself. Good thing I have a column for my deviant outlets.
"Has your eye color, hair color, height or weight changed since the last time you renewed your driver's license?" the woman asked without even looking at me or my license from four years ago.
What I wanted to say is, "If you look at my birth date, you will notice that I am now 42, and my height has decreased, and my weight has increased -- not proportionally, I may add. I now have four teenagers, so, instead of blue, my eyes appear bloodshot most days, and any hair that I haven't pulled out yet is still blond, thanks to L'Oreal. But that could change any day now."
What I said was, "Not that I'm admitting to."
"Are you currently under the influence of any illegal drugs or are you under a doctor's order to take mind-altering medications?" she asked.
What I wanted to say was, "Dude, I wish I was!"
What I said was, "Of course not."
"Have you ever been diagnosed with schizophrenia or another mental disease or impairment that could affect the operation of a large motor vehicle?" she asked through a yawn.
What I wanted to say was, "Nothing that has been medically confirmed. Remember? I told you I have four teenagers. They will drive you crazy. Literally."
What I said was, "No."
"Have you ever been convicted of a felony?" she asked, this time concentrating on her chipping nail polish instead of looking at me.
Suddenly, I had had enough of these stupid, government-required questions. I realized being a smart ass might get me a day or two in jail, but I decided it was worth it to break this poor woman's boredom.
So instead of answering correctly and saying, "No, I have never been convicted of a felony," I decided to have some fun.
"About 20 years ago, I was convicted of robbing a bank. Does that count?"
Well, that got her attention, and I was suddenly hoping that she didn't have a panic button under her desk to summon security.
"You robbed a bank?" she asked incredulously, taking a long hard look at my expired driver's license and then back at me.
"Well, I didn't really rob the bank," I said with a slight smile.
"I didn't think so," she said with a nervous laugh. "I mean, I know people can change in 20 years, but you really don't seem like the type who would rob a bank." She quickly finished processing my paperwork and motioned for me to move to photographer's station.
Before moving on, I leaned across the desk and whispered, "No, I didn't rob the bank."
"I just drove the getaway car."
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