Today I had a very important picture taken. See, we all reach that magical day we become 18 years old, and it happens only once, does it not? As today is that magical day I wasted no time scurrying down to the DMV to take my drivers Temps test as soon as possible. Anyways, you can guess the results. (How could it be otherwise?) I passed!! I then realized I was in the ‘big adult world’ because I had to wait in line before the whole process could be completed.
My Dad (who had driven me) (because I could not yet drive) sat across from me, sandwiched between a large Mexican woman who perpetually kept her back to him, and a black man who chewed his gum apathetically and stared off into the distance. My Dad sat there trying to make conversation with everybody (as my Dad is prone to do) and the man most vulnerable to my dad’s approaches had the face of a rock (well, a rock that chewed an endless piece of gum). I was seated in my own little set-apart-chair, and was thankful for a little ‘personal space’ (a necessity to all 18 year olds). Every body there wasn’t talking for any particular reason. They were just waiting… for something.
The guy that was in charge of calling out people’s names to get their pictures taken CLEARLY hadn’t been chosen with great care. He had a thick Libyan accent which tended to butcher every American name he was supposed to call. For instance, “Trisha” would have been shortened to “Eesha”. Another thing. He took the picture fine, but then when it came to my turn he took the picture, looked at it, and then just smirked. Later I got the ID and realized why. My whole face was like a shiny reflection! What a horrible camera! There might as well have been a piece of surrand-wrap stuck to my face when I smiled. In fact, why do people even bother to smile for those things? Smiling just gives the impression that one is satisfied with the horrible picture one is about to be handed. I think next time (which will hopefully be soon), I won’t smile. Next time I’ll ask if I can please turn to the side and just get a mug shot. That would be preferable to grinning like a dope and then having some Libyan guy smirk at my horrible face - not even knowing that today is the golden day every one is supposed to treat me very specially.
Anyways, my Dad wouldn’t let me drive me home. Twas probably wise because I do have the tendency to lurch now and then. Later, though, when I got to practice on residential streets, I was what my Dad deemed “quite good”. I’d better be, because I sat through three older siblings of driving lessons! So I don’t think I’ll be one of those learners who will share near-death-stories when I am older, more mature, and obviously wiser. La, that’s the great thing about age. One can earn credentials and display them along side a gray hair or two, and then proudly state ones ancient disposition. Why do old people shy away from saying their age? Why is everyone always wanting to be called young? I don't get it. Everyone is obsessed with it! Who wants to be stuck with the frowns people give the young, merely because they have not “been there” yet? (Wherever the desired “there” is).
So, I’m getting “there”. Soon. 18 is not so bad. At least now when salesmen in the mall stop me and try to engage me in conversation, their eyebrows will not sink in disappointment when they realize I am under-age. Now, they can look at me with some respect, because I am a valid, worthy customer.
Chalk it up to age, my friends.
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