The other day I dropped in to the DMV to renew my driverâ€™s license thanks to the lovely bank teller who informed me that my ID had expired a month ago and Iâ€™m sorry very much that I canâ€™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, â€œHeight, five-two?â€
â€œYes,â€ I said, knowing the question that was coming next.
â€œNow it says here that you are 120â€¦.â€
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.
â€œHereâ€™s the thing,â€ I lean in and lower my voice. â€œOne-twenty is a bit optimistic, but does it really hurt anyone to just leave that on there?â€
His smooth and dreamy voice says something about accidents on the highway and police needing to identify bodies, and I interrupt.
â€œOkay, I get it. How about we just say one-fifty,â€ I say, as if weâ€™re farmers bartering the price of a cow. â€œItâ€™s still a little optimistic, but more in the ballpark.â€
He smirks, and with that smooth and dreamy voice he says, â€œHey, now, you have nothing to worry about, youâ€™re a beautiful woman.â€
I nearly forgot I was married, and that he was wearing a cardigan sweater, and I almost offered to buy him a drink.