Wednesday Night at the DMV

The trip to the DMV to renew my license meant adding more driving time onto my already-horrific hour-long commute home. I grumble as my car drifts through the gridlocked streets of Wilmington at rush hour.

The new license would be my fourth in less than three years. Two years ago, I had to replace it after somebody stole my wallet from Planet Fitness. Last year, I renewed it when we moved. Now I am renewing my license because it’s expiring. They really should restart the clock on license expiration if you renew it in between those periods.

Finally, I park and look for a spot in the drizzle, finding one at the back of the lot. The lot is a madhouse with people darting everywhere to find spots. It makes a weird kind of sense that the worst drivers are always at the DMV.

I walk up to the door and there’s a line to get into the building to take a number to get in line. Good thing I brought a book and was already resigned to losing most of my evening. But the New Castle County DMV only has evening hours on Wednesdays and isn't open on weekends so there was no way around it.

The woman at the desk tells me I can renew at the kiosk and skip the line. I tell her I’ll try but I had problems doing that last year when I got all the way through the process and the kiosk told me it couldn’t complete my renewal for some mysterious reason and I had to stand in line anyway. I’ll try again but I take a number from her anyway so I can get in line now.

They’re calling number 1399. I have number 1448.

At the kiosk, it doesn’t look promising. The woman in front of me is commenting how the people at the front of the line are having trouble just like I did. But I might as well try while they whittle down the numbers.

I get through the process OK initially, confirming my address and what not. The weight on my license is laughably outdated but I think it would be more trouble than it’s worth to add pounds in the interest of accuracy. The machine takes the picture, telling me to maintain a neutral expression (easy for me). It’s not flattering. I look like the type of person I will someday keep my child away from.

I wait for the machine to malfunction because I got this far last year and it didn’t go through. It charges my card and gives me a receipt. I’m sure something will go wrong when I pick up my license.

I follow the footprints on the floor to the window and hand in my paperwork. Thirty seconds later, they call my name and I get my license. I’m in and out in 15 minutes.

It’s a weird feeling, not having anything to complain about after all.