Face your worst fears:
I am deadly afraid of the DMV office.
This is a place where whole afternoons go to die. A place where slow, surly, indifferent service, frustration, boredom, and public wearing of crocs and sweatpants eats at the soul and causes irreparable psychological and physical harm. But today I had no choice but to return the plates for my recently and miraculously sold 200,000 mile plus Subaru or risk liability for the misfortunes and/or misdeeds of the poor sucker who bought my car.
Upon entering the dreaded office, a vivid vision of my worst nightmares presented itself to me in gory detail. The entire waiting room was filled with an army of characters who would have failed a casting call for The People of Wallmart, all displaying a range of facial expressions and postures that indicated states of minds ranging from severe annoyance to on the verge of perpetrating a mass shooting. My palms went clammy and my mouth went dry. I felt a little lightheaded and suddenly wished that I had visited the bathroom once more before leaving the house. Too late now. Screwing up every subatomic particle of my courage, I took a ticket from the LED adorned dispenser and scanned the nearly full rows of seats, searching for a spot next to someone who appeared least capable or likely of perpetrating a random act of violence against a fellow sufferer, but not yet requiring adult diapers. Just then The Voice of What passes for God at that address boomed over the loudspeaker.
“Ticket number 2257, window Two.”
I looked at my ticket for the first time and saw the magical digits 2257 printed in bold black thermal ink. Not trusting the evidence offered by my eyes, still adjusting to the indoor lighting, I checked the ticket again and then the LED board overhead, which both corroborated my suspicion that a miracle had indeed taken place. Mine was the first number called! Ignoring the lethal stares that no doubt every one of them was drilling into my vital organs in hopes of willing me to drop dead, I attempted to casually saunter past the assembled ranks of disgruntled would be New York State motorists to window number two, where I was pleasantly greeted by a smiling young man who promptly received my plates and issued a receipt with a courteous nod. I wished him eternal happiness and a long life, and quickly exited the building past the rows of the unfortunate, my mission executed in less time than it took me to type this report.