The other day I dropped in to the DMV to renew my driver’s license thanks to the lovely bank teller who informed me that my ID had expired a month ago and I’m sorry very much that I can’t give you twenty of your own dollars because an expired ID renders your existence to the dust of the earth.
At the DMV I was assisted by a very dreamy man who was delicious in every way except that he was wearing a navy blue cardigan sweater and he was working at the DMV.
After changing my address, he looks at me very diplomatically and says in his smooth and dreamy voice, “Height, five-two?”
“Yes,” I said, knowing the question that was coming next.
“Now it says here that you are 120….”
He leaves it hanging open for me to finish the sentence, and just like that I get busted for ten years of lying about my weight on my ID.
“Here’s the thing,” I lean in and lower my voice. “One-twenty is a bit optimistic, but does it really hurt anyone to just leave that on there?”
His smooth and dreamy voice says something about accidents on the highway and police needing to identify bodies, and I interrupt.
“Okay, I get it. How about we just say one-fifty,” I say, as if we’re farmers bartering the price of a cow. “It’s still a little optimistic, but more in the ballpark.”
He smirks, and with that smooth and dreamy voice he says, “Hey, now, you have nothing to worry about, you’re a beautiful woman.”
I nearly forgot I was married, and that he was wearing a cardigan sweater, and I almost offered to buy him a drink.