Confessions of a Lady Driver

The world can breathe a sigh of relief-- I passed my driver's test. Can't quite see how, as Frank the tester was a Nazi. But I did it, and I now have my official glow-in -the-dark driver license, complete with a shot of me as a wet rat. I know the guy who took my picture wasn't concerned with the fact that I would have to show that picture to multiple people over the next five years. I admit that I fluffed-- at least, I tried. The DMV always makes you sit quietly for at least three hours, right? I figured in the time it would take the teenager in front of me to finish his test, added in the time for my test plus the wait for a photo and Viola! my hair would be dry, fluffed and picture-ready. You expect a bad picture when you get a license, but if I could beat the system without too much effort, I was certainly going to try.
So the teenager mixed up his hand signals before making it out of the parking lot and was sent back to study. And suddenly the old man with a prematurely grayed out mustache and beard was ordering me to snap out the hand signal for a left turn. He looked at his ease, but spoke like a man ready for disaster.
Frank told me to parallel park behind a van, and then marked me down because I was too close to the imaginary car behind us. I apologized to the imaginary driver of the imaginary car, just for points. Frank wasn't amused. But then, I don't think Frank has cracked a smile since the Red Scare.
I was docked for being too close to the line at a stop sign and too far from the curb on my two-point turn. My favorite mark down was when I went through a green light. Apparently, I should have been more vigilant at making sure nobody was careening out of control through the intersection before going. In essence, I ran a green light.
Sheesh, he should see how I normally drive.
Despite the venerable Frank, I passed. And my hair was starting to dry, so goodie. But as I sat to prepare for my obligatory stint of pointless waiting at the DMV, my name was called and I was rushed before the camera. I tried to subtly fluff my semi-wet hair and for my efforts got a weird look from a guy who obviously spends too much of his day taking terrible pictures of people.
And suddenly I was done, not an hour after I had arrived. It's sweet irony-- I had come for the biggest function the DMV serves, and it took a third of the time everything else does.
As for the picture, I look like a goofily happy flood survivor, despite my fluffing. It must be acknowledged: that photographer had skills.