Why, God? Why must I carry this burden?!

So, happily, the great state of Indiana does not allow you to smile for your driver’s license picture. Wonderfully, you also cannot have any hair touching your face. Can you tell how excited I am about this?

Ummm, howbout… NOT.

The whole experience at the DMV — oops, they call it the BMV here — was miserable. I mean, this all took place like four months ago, so I’m almost over it now.

If only people would STOP. COMMENTING. ON MY PICTURE.

First of all, the whole no-smiling-and-hair-slicked-back look? Not so flattering. I look like I’m a Russian serial killer.

Don’t believe me?

I got my license first, then had to go back to the BMV a second time for my plates. (I actually wrote a blog post about that experience, but the whole thing was so exhausting, I gave up halfway through. Let’s just say, there was an extremely chatty woman in front of me and a man behind me who was standing so close, I might as well have been giving him a piggy back ride.) After standing in line for 30 minutes, I was finally called over to the counter.

I filled out some papers, answered some questions, yada yada yada. Then, the guy asked to see my license. I pulled it out of my wallet and slid it across the counter to him. He picked it up, took one look at it, and started laughing.

LAUGHING!

Yeah yeah, you’re thinking. Big deal.

YEAH YEAH! BIG DEAL!

That man probably sees hundreds of licenses every day. I’m sure there are some terrible photos out there. Yet, he found mine to be shocking enough to laugh at. Now THAT’S bad.

A few days later, after I had gathered my pride enough to leave my house again, I went to the post office to mail some packages. I waited in line behind the slowest woman alive and in front of the smelliest man on the planet. Finally, it was my turn to step up to the counter.

The woman weighed the packages and I slid my credit card. Then, she asked to see my ID.

“Whoa!” she exclaimed when I handed it to her.

“What?” I asked. I’d forgotten how bad the picture was.

“Is that you?” she asked, turning the ID around so I could see it.

“Uh, yeah,” I blushed.

“Girl, you need to get a new license. That is ridiculous! You look 25 years older in this picture!”

“Well, uh, yeah. I don’t like it. They don’t let you smile, you know.”

As if that would make it better.

“Yeah, I know, but this is bad. Look here. It doesn’t expire until June 2016? I’m telling you. Go back and get a new picture. You can’t be showing this to everyone.”

Ugh. Such a plight.

And no. Don’t you think I’m going to humiliate myself any further by letting you see my terrible picture. Dream on, sister . No way, Jose.

Okfine.

Now, pretend this never happened.


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