Eye of Newt
So it was my birthday week. (Still accepting all wishes and presents.) And it’s 2020. Which means my driver’s license was set to expire this year.
Once, when we were living in Israel two decades ago, and I wasn’t driving anywhere, I totally missed the memo on the looming expiration. I got to America for a visit and headed to the BMV to renew it, only for the rude awakening that it was over six months expired. You know what that means, right? It means you need to re-take your DRIVING TEST. Yes, I did pass. Thanks for your vote of confidence. Yes. The first time. Sigh.
But I digress.
Once bitten, twice shy—now I’m neurotic about such renewals, and, even though this was a crazy week, kids not in school or camp et al, I soldiered on over. Of course I went online first to dutifully check which documents I’d need, especially since I was upgrading to a “Compliant Driver’s License.” For those of you who are unfamiliar, after October 2021, you will not be able to fly within the United States with a regular ID. You will need an upgraded, enhanced ID or else you will need to travel with your passport. So although it doesn’t feel like I’m going to get on a plane anytime in the next decade, I wanted to have all my ducks in a row and upgrade now while I was renewing anyway.
I printed out all the relevant papers, and, for good measure, grabbed my envelope that has all my important documents, including but not limited to my 2018 University Heights pool pass and my bloodwork from an internist from five years ago proclaiming my triglycerides as excellent. You can’t be too careful.
I drove over to the BMV, and quickly discovered that the online registration system was down. Who knew that even existed? Thanks for the info online, guys. The next thing I discovered is that there were two lines. One was for IDs and one was for car-related issues. In faithful compliance with Murphy’s Law, my line was moving four times slower than the other line. Also in extra special compliance with Murphy’s Law, my phone was on 21%.
We all stood politely outside in our masks 6 feet apart, good-naturedly grumbling. I managed to get plenty of work done on my phone until it died. That filled the first hour.
Then a woman came outside and announced that the passport machine was down. If any of us had brought our passport as our only proof of birth, we should come back another day. I’m pretty sure that me standing there on the sidewalk was good enough proof of birth, but nobody asked me. A few more special people were admitted into the inner sanctum. One disgruntled guy in scrubs walked away. It felt like Survivor.
Another while passed. The nice lady came out again and announced, as a friendly reminder, that we needed our birth certificate, two proofs of address, social security card, eye of newt, and feather of phoenix (the wand chooses the wizard). A tired-looking couple left. Off the island! Oh, and she reminded us, women will need a marriage license.
Honestly, I have not looked at my marriage license in 27 years. I had no idea if it was even still nestled comfortably in my envelope of important documents. But there it was! I found it right in between my Social Security card and my Triple-A card (in my life these carry equal importance).
Why would we need a marriage license?? I guess after all these years I need to prove that little Rochelle Sobel, born in Albert Einstein hospital in NYC, is none other than Rochelle Koval of Cleveland, Ohio, dutifully carrying her envelope filled with eye of newt and other valuable ingredients for the elusive and mysterious Compliant ID. Also: Plot twist! My alter ego is Ruchi Koval. Mwahahahaha!
Fascinating. Didn’t these people know that I had taken my maiden names off my Facebook page three whole years ago? Was it really still necessary to prove my identity?
Finally, á la Queen Esther, I was summoned to enter. I sat where they told me to sit. I got up when they told me to get up. I went to counter three, which is where they told me to go. I am nothing if not good at following directions.
Then the woman helping me gave a deep and painful sigh. She mumbled to the woman sitting next to her, but I managed to eavesdrop on the evil plot. Looks like the compliant site is down. My heart plummeted to my toes. After all I’d endured, it couldn’t possibly end like this, could it?
It didn’t. And I did walk out with a photocopy and a promise that the precious thing would be mailed to my house. Good thing I am a person of faith.
What’s the point of all this? I don’t know. That’s why we call it a ramble. But I do know that it produced questions in my mind. Questions of minuscule details and seemingly arbitrary rules. Thoughts about how long things take and when they finally do come through at the right moment. Insights about identity and proving who you are and if that ever stops being an issue. Thoughts about emotional roller coasters, about hopes raised and dashed, about expectations lowered and lifted. I don’t know.
I guess it’s a little story about the island of survivors we call life. Also, hang on to your pool passes, kids. You just never know.
Shabbat Shalom,
Ruchi Koval
