There are times in life when I hear somebody twice my age saying they would be a teenager for life if given the opportunity. You know somebody who says this simply forgot what the teen years were like.
I don't know how your sweet 16 went, but I have never met a soul who had that Molly Ringwald perfection of teenage bliss. Maybe I just know awkward people.
I pick on 16 because it's haunting me. A decade after passing my driver's test, I've been resigned to taking it again. I'm glad I passed the written part, though I gotta say after driving for ten years I'm shocked to discover the rules that are being taught to teen drivers. For example, driving by the rules means not entering an intersection until you can go through it without stopping. For all of us who wade into the middle and just hang out for a left turn, this seems incredible. The world would move at a slower pace were we to drive by the book, as it were. Maybe that'd be alright. A slower pace of life for Americans everywhere. You could probably delineate who would be offed by a heart attack first based on coffee orders.
Stay with me, now. You walk into a certain coffee shop in the morning and you meet the three categories of coffee drinkers:
What I find fascinating about type three people is the fact that they never seem in a hurry. You noticed type two had "things to do." Type three's going to stick around until their coffee control is complete. First coffee, then the world I guess.
The second oddity for type three is the fact that they're usually dressed similarly to type one. Maybe not pajamas, but most certainly not a power suit. Think bag lady.
So type three dies first in a world with limited left turns. Not because they're going to miss the meeting and lose their job, but this world simply refuses to revolve around them like it's supposed to! Sipping on their half-caf 175 degree 5/8 pump hazelnut half honey 2 percent vanilla ristretto latte, they would see they weren't going to get their way with traffic and their heart would simply stop.
I think type two would probably make it, but the blood pressure would climb over time and they would die off eventually.
And then we'd be in a world of type one. Everyone in pajamas, contentedly watching the light turn red to green to red again, thinking about how awesome it was to discover a new drink when that guy in the half Windsor took theirs.
I digress. Back to the issue at hand. The best part about needing a driver's test is the fact that the DMV is booked from here to eternity, so in the interim I'm driving on an expired license. Shh. This makes life difficult in a number of ways. A decade-old license doesn't glow under black lights. Newer ones do. My license not glowing leads to my being refused service, which leads to the conversation as to how old do I really look, which somehow leads to the conversation as to where I can go and how much it will cost for a fake ID. Now, I never had any use for a fake when I was a minor, and I certainly have no use for one now that I've passed the 21 mark.
I'd like to aspire to being a type one kind of person. So in this scenario, I've discovered there's a way to come off as 19 when you need it. I can't imagine when you'd need it, but just in case, I got it covered.
I don't know how your sweet 16 went, but I have never met a soul who had that Molly Ringwald perfection of teenage bliss. Maybe I just know awkward people.
I pick on 16 because it's haunting me. A decade after passing my driver's test, I've been resigned to taking it again. I'm glad I passed the written part, though I gotta say after driving for ten years I'm shocked to discover the rules that are being taught to teen drivers. For example, driving by the rules means not entering an intersection until you can go through it without stopping. For all of us who wade into the middle and just hang out for a left turn, this seems incredible. The world would move at a slower pace were we to drive by the book, as it were. Maybe that'd be alright. A slower pace of life for Americans everywhere. You could probably delineate who would be offed by a heart attack first based on coffee orders.
Stay with me, now. You walk into a certain coffee shop in the morning and you meet the three categories of coffee drinkers:
- The first consist of the people who order in their pajamas, get the wrong drink and react saying "Wow, this is awesome," and go on their way.
- The second are the ones who are in a starched collar and fitted jacket, but a single Windsor. Slightly uptight, but too rushed to do anything about it. They get the mild roast instead of the bold, roll their eyes, mutter under their breath the injustice of getting the wrong drink every day, glance at their watch and beeline to the door with the longest strides they can manage. It's great when type two is also incredibly short. Their exit is often followed by a forlorn barista trying to catch their attention because they picked up somebody else's drink.
- Type three consists of the people who get the right drink but will fight tooth and nail that it isn't hot enough ("I said 175 degrees!"), too sweet ("I only wanted two pumps of mocha! Two!"), whatever, name your poison. And, voices raised, they hand the drink back to the barista with a scowl that would melt steel, start hyperventilating and lay their head down on the counter, defeated.
What I find fascinating about type three people is the fact that they never seem in a hurry. You noticed type two had "things to do." Type three's going to stick around until their coffee control is complete. First coffee, then the world I guess.
The second oddity for type three is the fact that they're usually dressed similarly to type one. Maybe not pajamas, but most certainly not a power suit. Think bag lady.
So type three dies first in a world with limited left turns. Not because they're going to miss the meeting and lose their job, but this world simply refuses to revolve around them like it's supposed to! Sipping on their half-caf 175 degree 5/8 pump hazelnut half honey 2 percent vanilla ristretto latte, they would see they weren't going to get their way with traffic and their heart would simply stop.
I think type two would probably make it, but the blood pressure would climb over time and they would die off eventually.
And then we'd be in a world of type one. Everyone in pajamas, contentedly watching the light turn red to green to red again, thinking about how awesome it was to discover a new drink when that guy in the half Windsor took theirs.
I digress. Back to the issue at hand. The best part about needing a driver's test is the fact that the DMV is booked from here to eternity, so in the interim I'm driving on an expired license. Shh. This makes life difficult in a number of ways. A decade-old license doesn't glow under black lights. Newer ones do. My license not glowing leads to my being refused service, which leads to the conversation as to how old do I really look, which somehow leads to the conversation as to where I can go and how much it will cost for a fake ID. Now, I never had any use for a fake when I was a minor, and I certainly have no use for one now that I've passed the 21 mark. I'd like to aspire to being a type one kind of person. So in this scenario, I've discovered there's a way to come off as 19 when you need it. I can't imagine when you'd need it, but just in case, I got it covered.
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