With the incoming storm, I left work a bit early. Since I’d skipped lunch, I drove over to the local DMV …
(Oh, yeah. Car’s fine. Subaru folks called me up this a.m., said it turned over this morning without any problems, and the starter and charging systems checked out fine, and the battery was at full power. I guess the drive up there shook it out of its funk.)
… on Pierce, which turned out to be a full-service DMV, which meant it was full of eleventy zillion people. Rrg.
Ah. A map. And, of course, I knew there was one much closer to home.
So I drove home, making about 50-60 on the way, with the precip varying between little ice pellet things, to clear, to heavy flakes, to clear, to a light snow. I sauntered into the Littleton Drivers License office on County Line (right by Tres Margaritas, yum), and found …
… well, only a half-dozen zillion people. I don’t know if it’s still holiday break, or New Year’s resolutions, or what, but the lady at the welcome counter handed me ticket number 61. The wall display read 17.
About fifty minutes later, I got called to the counter. I swore I wasn’t prone to epileptic fits, that I did indeed need to wear glasses, that my city was now Centennial, and that, yes, they can rip as many organs out of my body when I die as they think would be useful.
Then I stood in line another twenty minutes to get my photo taken. Hair well trimmed (by Margie), dressed in a nice red dress shirt and grey tie with red dots … the photographer opined that I looked pretty swank (which, having watched some dozens of other folks getting photographed, I can well agree with — and most of those people will then complain about how bad their photo is …).
Anyway, I have a nice paper license, awaiting mail delivery in the next few weeks of my nice new drivers license — which will now last me ten years, rather than five (another good reason to make sure I’m looking in a way that I won’t mind looking at over the next decade).