Small Things

You all know how much I love Texas.

But Texas and I got off to kind of a bad start when I went, the first or second week I lived there, to get my new driver’s license.

Bart and I had only been married about 8 months at that point, so I’d gotten a new driver’s license the week after we were married. My new Utah license was glorious. The picture was good, my hair looked terrific, and I had no problem whipping it out when requested. It was a glorious replacement for my first driver’s license in Nevada where I had braces, looked about 8, and had my head turned to the side (you were required by law to do that if you were under 21, but anyone outside the state thought I was just too dumb to look straight at the camera).

Texas not only demanded my perfect license, but then handed me over a new Texas license that was, in short, heinous. As if the horrible cream-yellow background color wasn’t bad enough, the picture was unflattering in every possible way. My hair looked terrible. My face looked round. You could almost see the photographer in the shine on my face. It was horrendous.

Two years ago, I went in to the doctor’s office and when they pulled out my file, I saw a copy of my Utah license that they’d made when I came in the week I’d moved to Texas. I wept again at the loss.

Last Friday, Bart and I went to the DMV and I got a new drivers license (I know, I know, I’m not the only one who thinks this is an absurd amount of drivers licenses in just a few years). When the woman at the desk flipped the screen around so I could see my picture, I almost hugged her. It was a good picture. One I won’t shudder at every single time I’m asked for ID (which, granted, is not that often).

Massachusetts, you’re already winning me over.

Of course, if you hadn’t charged me ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS for a new lovely license picture, you’d be winning me over a little faster.