My driver’s license is up today, on my thirty-third birthday. It sort of feels like Logan’s Run, where at thirty-three, you were in line to being incinerated. Or on a brighter note, Jesus was rapping up things and preparing to be resurrected.
The day after I got back from Hawaii, I realized that I had procrastinated long enough and I had to get my license renewed pronto. Eight years ago when I last renewed my license, the DMV was in some brick building. Now it’s on the second floor of a shopping mall. The other major improvement is that lines have been minimized: there are two short intake lines that make sure that you have the right forms and take your photo if necessary. Then you’re given a computer-generated number where you wait your turn on benches until the computer generated woman announces that it is your turn. It’s a lot more humane than the old system. One and 1/2 hours and $45 later I was out with my new temporary license in hand. I visited the Pathmark that I didn’t know was there (in walking distance — ah, another 24 hour choice over Key Food) and a Storage USA (I need a safety valve to get rid of the excess junk out of my apartment.)
I’m sitting here writing, my forearms tingling and inflamed from delayed-reaction sunburn. I’m convinced that my body is designed for sub-tropical weather — there, my skin is smooth, clear and supple, here in the frigid want-to-be-like-London weather my skin is dry, itchy, and feels so tight I want to shed it. An ignoble way to begin a thirty-third year, but so many other things are going right. A Wong Tai Sin soothsayer, after feeling bumps and looking at moles, peged my expiration date to be around 2043, so what is a thirty-something to do? I remember my childhood filled with itching: itching is your body’s way of reminding you that you are alive and have to do something.
My Hawaii pics are still uploading (600+) and I have a few vignettes from the trip that I will post as they are completed. Just excuse the time warp.
