Pandemic DMV

On Tuesday, June 16, 2020, I arrived at the DMV to renew my expired driver's license. I arrived at 8:29 AM, one minute prior to the opening of the door and the onset of emotion. Here is the pandemic play-by-play:

8:29 AM:  Sun is shining. There are 31 people standing in line. The person in first place is a man in scrubs. We shall remember him as "Sunrise Scrubs".

8:31 AM: I call my wife to simply exclaim that 31 people had beat me to this position in life. Without saying much, she tells me she is trying to take care of our two children and simultaneously be a business woman. Stand your ground.

8:40 AM: I realize that without a hat I am vulnerable. "Sunshine Stephenson" burns easily. I plead for mercy to the family of three behind me. They vow to save my spot in this procession of angst. I jog to my Subaru as if walking would be disrespectful to my fellow Pennsylvanians. I emerge with my "Dad hat", an UnderArmor snapback that only a Dad can wear. Perfect for the DMV.

8:45 AM: The family of three behind me are here for a driver's license test. A teenage girl and her parents in the ultimate heat - driver's test, spicy morning, pandemic...torturous theatre in this final week of spring. I drift back in time and remember my parallel park - the worst parallel park to pass in the history of our nation.

8:50 AM: A woman who presumably works in this box of a building greets the disgruntled. She is pleasant and I give her great credit. To be the "pump up DMV spokeswoman" is no walk in the park. She politely asks why each of us is here. Loaded question. Loaded question.

8:55 AM: I have random conversations with my band of brothers and sisters regarding the "Real ID". I determine I just need my face on a card. I don't care what the classification as long as it is not a "Fake ID". I have a Zip-Lock bag of items that my wife handed to me. It was like when a child is handed their brown bagged lunch except mine has a checkbook, documents I don't understand, a passport, and nothing to eat.

9:00 AM: I'm still outside but the promise of shelter feels more real. I am still not sure if I am going to get a "Real ID" at this point. I learn that you can't actually get the "Real ID" in this box of a building today. You can apply for it and then do some World Wide Web magic. I think then a magician delivers the "Real ID" to your house and pulls it out of a hat. Not a "Dad hat". One of those tall black hats that Abraham Lincoln once wore. President Lincoln never had to get a "Real ID".

9:10 AM:  I am inside. There is no turning back now. I get my ticket. The DMV ticket is not something you typically equate with victory, but it feels like a Super Tuesday with it in my hand. With mask on, I wait for my time to come.

9:15 AM: I am chosen. It is like the scene from Toy Story when the alien is selected by the claw machine. Your life has purpose. Your destiny awaits.

9:16 AM: This guy is talking so fast. I'm digging into my Zip-Lock. He asks me if I am here for my "Real ID". Stunned, I thought that was not an option. He explains more. I'm still elbow deep in my Zip-Lock. He can validate documents behind his shielded supreme station and then can grant me passage IF I have everything I need. He seems confident I have what I need considering the depth of my Zip-Lock.

9:21 AM: Validated. He says, "Make sure you have everything you came in here with." I can't do that because I don't know what I came in here with.

9:23 AM: Phase 2. Same ticket. New claw machine calling. Wait to be called. New room. Wear the same mask, except for the picture. I thought it would have been hilarious if Governor Wolfe declared everyone had to wear masks for their photo ID. First, safety first. Second, the DMV worker doesn't have to say, "Smile for the camera." Everyone wins.

9:26 AM: The picture taker thanks me for being an organ donor. Internally, I thank my internal organs. I accepted this award on behalf of my kidneys, heart, and brain.

9:29 AM: I smile as if I am getting struck by lightning. It has been one epic hour. I am lighting up this ID with crazy eyes and a smile that radiates stronger than the morning sun.

9:32 AM: A man hands me my new license and I am expected to confirm the facts. I just look at the picture and say "all good". This is not my "Real ID". He tells me to exit out the door to the left.

9:33 AM: I walk through the waiting room like a champion. I miss the exit door.

9:33 AM: I pivot and walk back toward the exit like Bashful. I see the sun through the door.

I should have jogged back to my car. I was satisfied, relieved, and ultimately still confused about the "Real ID". With my "Dad hat" on, I realized that satisfaction, relief, and confusion might be the three primary emotions of parenting. Think of them as the green, yellow, red of being responsible for another human being.

I hope I never forget this DMV experience. I hope I never forget my parallel park.

My only "real hope" is for my brain to take home the greatest award of all...

Lifetime Achievement.