in which I have need of a seeing eye dog

So today I finally drag myself to the DMV, after visiting our "local" Social Security office nearly 45 minutes away, to obtain a driver's license issued from the state in which we now live which requires an actual social security card be shown as part of the "prove you are who you say you are" process which is why I made the silly drive toward the coast in the first place.


Anyway.


When I arrive at the DMV, I am simultaneously surprised at the emptiness of the room and the, how shall I say, unattractive, underdeveloped, ugliness of this place. The outside of the building is at least mildly attractive. But the inside? Well, it's sort of what I'd imagine a place looking like if I were here to get a license to say, drive a tractor or maybe a fancy ride-on mower.


Yeah. Kind of like that.


You know, plywood pieced together to form a barrier between us and them and some plastic chairs scattered along the wall in case lots of folks suddenly have need of legally scooting around on their John Deeres. They had some computers or some type of things on their side that they clicked on while asking lots of questions and requesting proof of your identification and residence. And there was the deli-style "take-a-number" gizmo to organize the herd of waiting driver-wannabes. And over on the far wall was a scrap piece of blue "yard goods" in front of which people could stand while they flashed their pearly whites (or vacant gaps) for the camera.


I took a little piece of paper marked with J-144 and then had a seat on the cheap plastic chair while I waited to be called.


"Who's next? I forgot what numbers we're on," came a voice from behind the plywood.


I look around at the other couple of people who are waiting and get the nod to go ahead.


I was sure this was going to be an easy process. I mean, I had already been on-line to see what sort of stuff I should bring with me, and I had made the drive to obtain not the actual card, but a piece of paper stating that I did indeed ask for a card, and I had a license and a piece of mail with my very own name on it.


Yep, I am ready.


The nice lady clicks and asks, asks and clicks, and takes my papers and writes some stuff down.


"Do you wear glasses or contacts?" she asks.


"Well, no, actually I don't. I guess I just don't need them," came my smug reply.


And then she asks me to please step down the counter a little and place my forehead on some eye-testing contraption and to, "Please read the first line."


"Sure, no problem."


I reluctantly place my forehead against this piece of plastic that I am sure everybody in the county and nearby towns have placed their sweaty, tractor-ridin' noggins on and proceed to read the first line.


I. C. A. N.---T. S. E. E.


"There you go."


"Um, there are 12 letters."


Whuh? Uhn uhn.


I. C. A. N.---T. S. E. E...


"I only have 8."


"No, ma'am, there are 12."


I. C. A. N.---T. S. E. E......I. C. A. N.---T. S. E. E...


"I only see 4 then 4 more. Are you sure there are 12?"


"Yes, ma'am. Close one eye."


I close my right eye. "Nope, still 8."


"Close the other eye. Do the letters change?"


Whuh? Change? Is this a trick?


Then I close my left eye.


nervous giggle


"There they are!" O. O. P. S...


"And you said you don't wear glasses or contacts?" she asked again, not really mocking me, but rather in a tone of voice that implied she may have forgotten to ask me already.


"Um, no ma'am...not yet," I answered a little quieter and less confidently this time.


"Yeah, um, sweetie, you might want to have that checked."


sigh


I thanked her and then stood in front of the lovely aqua backdrop and smiled the best I could having just learned I am in fact blind and still have to drive home. I signed my name on the tiny line (I think), took my new license from the handy-dandy picture taking machine and walked toward the bright light while feeling my way out of the room.


Perhaps it was just as lovely on the inside as on the outside, but being blind and all I just didn't notice.