Pardon me, DMV -- it's none of your business!

Every time I have to renew my driver’s license, I get stuck in a cycle of guilt and vanity worthy of Perseus. You see, it’s been several years since the last renewal, which can only mean that one or more pieces of information on the document is no longer accurate. And I don’t mean the color of my eyes.

You know what I mean.

Yes, my weight. I can’t believe that the number that so horrified me at age 21 now seems an unrealistic ideal. Heck, if I weighed that now I’d be a vision – a goddess, I tell you. That number (that I won’t mention) was then dozens less than my young husband. A respectable female-male gap then existed that remained for several years.

And then the duplicity began.

I did pretty well at keeping the “fat” wolf at bay until my mid- to late thirties. But then, as my driver’s license renewals came due, “that number” didn’t get updated nearly as often as my photo. After all, I was just carrying a few extra pounds temporarily.

There were all sorts of very valid reasons:

1. I just moved to a new house.
2. I was just starting a new job.
3. The kids were driving me crazy.
4. It was November.
5. The sun was out.

Anyway, by the time it became obvious that I wasn’t going to reclaim my age-21 weight, I was stuck. And I think it’s the DMV’s fault.

No, really. I do. Think about it: the first time you renew, all you have to do is send in a check and they reissue the license with all the previous information intact. The next time they only ask that you go in and get a new photo.

“Same address?”

“Yes.”

“Step over here for your photo.”

Eventually you have to take the test again, and the clerk will probably ask if all the information is still correct. What are you supposed to say?

“Everything’s the same but I now dye my hair blonde.”

Come on, they know people change their hair color. So I just give ‘em what it was originally. I guess. I forget.

Address? Check. Been the same for 22 years.

Eyes? Blue-green. Blue. Whatever. That doesn’t change.

Then, the pause.

“Uh, excuse me, sir. Could you bump up my weight by 30 pounds? I’d hate to be found left for dead and the officer not be able to recognize me from the description on my license.”

Yeah, right.

It’d be different if I were simply filling out a form and some clerk just typed in the data. But to make this particular change, you have to actually call their attention to the fact that you’ve been enjoying too much ice cream for far too long. Then they give you the smirk. The knowing non-smile. They don’t say a word. Bastards.

So, naturally, I’d rather avoid all that.

Judging by my driver’s license, I’m the picture of fitness. And what goes past the checker on the conveyor belt at the grocery store has no connection to the weight on my license, right? What happens in Safeway stays in Safeway.

“Did you put my Oreos in the bag with the Slimfast?” I ask as I put away my ID.

You gotta love a woman who could play poker with James Bond.

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