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Illegal is uncomfortable

Last week a merchant needed to see my driver’s license for verification. No problem, As I slid my finger under the card to slip it out of its window, I noticed the photo looked odd – my hair looked longer than I’ve been wearing it recently. Huh?

I couldn’t believe my eyes – it was an old driver’s license – expired in 2002. But where was my current one – the one that allows me to get behind the wheel and legally terrify the local population? And so began the search.

I tore the wallet apart. Out came the debit cards, the credit cards, the library card, the cash, the checkbook. Then came the business cards, the receipts and the post-it note with a forgotten phone number. Nothing.

I waded through the pens, the lipsticks, eye drops, hairbrush, daily medicines and bills in my purse. I emptied every zippered compartment. Twice. Nada.

Then I got anxious. Where is it? I can’t be driving around as a scofflaw. Have I lost it or just misplaced it?

And where did this license from 15 years ago come from? If it expired in 2002 it means the picture was taken in 1998. I’ve had three other licenses between the one in my hand and the one I’m desperately seeking. Then I noticed – hey I looked pretty good! I laughed to myself thinking that we always hate our new license picture – mostly because it really looks like us – but the older ones always look halfway decent. Mother Nature could be kinder and split the difference.

I went through my other purses and every coat and jacket pocket in two closets. I checked bedroom and kitchen drawers. Zip.

We were heading for Annapolis the next day to visit my son. Since Dear Richard usually is master of the wheel, I wasn’t too worried about a highway stop. And since we usually keep the AK-47’s and the contraband heroin in the trunk, I assumed my out-of-date license would suffice if we were stopped. But I was very uncomfortable not having a current ID.

We had planned a weekend of visiting, gardening, dining out and making sure Dear Richard got a tour of the Naval Academy. My son, Bart was a 1998 alumni and he seems to enjoy introducing his old stomping grounds to newcomers.

Bart lives in the historic old town of Annapolis, a few blocks from the academy’s 338-acre campus. As we headed out the door he reminded us to have our photo I.D.’s available. Gulp.

I didn’t panic. I was reminded how everything changed at the academy after 9/11: instead of being an accessible college campus with a marine sentry at each gate, the academy reverted to being a military base with students – and a military police security checkpoint at one single entry gate. This was going to take some careful handling.

Checking my defunct license, I noticed that the expiration date was in the upper right hand corner. I pocketed the license so I could pull it out, holding it by that corner. If security didn’t take it away from me for inspection, I might slip through. I was picturing a nasty scene in which I was found out, all the M.P. detail gathered, trying to decide what to do with the white-haired perpetrator attempting to storm Gate One. I decided not to mention my plan to Bart.

The security guard looked at the license I held up to him, smiled and nodded. It worked! Scanning the 19-year old photo, then looking back at me he probably thought, boy is she having a bad day.

We were in. The reminiscent tour was fun but I began to flag from the long walk. I headed back to the gate to wait for the boys to finish. The same guard was still on duty and he smiled at me as I sat on an adjacent bench. Gradually we struck up a conversation between his inspections of all the entrants. As I watched him ask people for pocket contents, search purses and scan I.D.’s very carefully, I wondered at my earlier luck. Finally, I asked him.“I noticed that you’re very thorough as you admit people.”

He grinned and said, “Oh, I just spot checked you because you were with your son. He’s here most days walking his dog. Everybody knows him.”

“But we were strangers to you” I laughingly said to him.

“Not really,” he replied. “He looks just like you.” This young man has a waiting career in the diplomatic corps.

When we returned to Warren, I was eager to get my life back in order.. I walked into the licensing center Thursday, took a wait ticket from the dispenser, number seven. The lighted sign indicated “Serving #6.” Before I could sit down, Jim, the cheery clerk called number seven.

I said I needed a replacement, showed Jim my antique license and he said, “You write me a check for $28.50 and I’ll give you a new one.” Whoa – this is service, I thought. I handed him the completed check, he pushed a few more buttons and handed me a new license, a perfect duplicate of the missing one, complete with 2014 photo. I thanked him, we exchanged a few pleasantries and I headed for the car. Six minutes.

As I pulled out of the license center, I thought, wow – user-friendly, painless and efficient! And boy did I feel more comfortable driving down Hatch Run Road without checking behind every tree for a Pennsylvania trooper. I am legal again.

I went to sleep Thursday night thinking about the millions of refugees who must keep their “papers” with them at all times and protect those I.D.s from water, loss or theft. I thought how very blessed I am.

Even if I do look 19 years older.

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