Your mama wishes she had a container filled with raccoon sperm

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So…I turned 40.

It was uneventful. Well, except for the 583 emails I received wishing me a Happy Birthday. That? Was awesome. (and thank you. really)

But mostly? It was just another day.

I woke up. Made the kids’ lunches. Drove them to school. Got cut off by an asshole driver who was *clearly* in a way bigger hurry than me.

Went to the gym. Got on the elliptical machine for 40 minutes… and then was subjected to an ass beating by my trainer. Ah. Bliss.

Came home.

Showered.

Got dressed… which included drying my hair, applying makeup, and putting on a BRA.

Then.

I did what every other woman does on her 40th birthday… I went to renew my driver’s license.

Yes. I’m *that* person.

In my defense I didn’t realize that my license was expiring on my birthday until the TSA agent at the airport kindly pointed that out to me last week.

Fuck.

And normally I wouldn’t be in such a rush to renew my license, but I must get on a plane again next week. And the week after that. And I may be wrong, but TSA doesn’t joke around with expired licenses and containers filled with raccoon sperm.

Trust me.

So.

To the DMV I went.

I walked into the dimly lit building, which by the way, smelled like the inside of a tennis shoe worn by a sweaty homeless guy from Louisiana (no offense to actual Louisiana sweaty homeless people who wear tennis shoes) and immediately noticed the line.

Jesus. It was LONG.

Like long long. Like so long you want to slit your wrists. Or the very least, pluck out your pubic hair, one by one. If, you know, the police wouldn’t arrest you for public indecency. Not that I would know anything about that.

Anyway… So I’m standing in the LONG line and about an hour into it, my eyes meet with a young guy standing behind me.

“Have you adjusted yet?” He asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Since you got out?” He seemed puzzled by my response.

“Got out of where?”

“Don’t you remember me?” Now, he’s clearly offended.

Blink. Blink.

“From two weeks ago? We rode on the van together?”

I had no idea what to say. Who WAS this weirdo? I don’t ride in VANS. Jeez.

“You don’t remember talking to me when we were being transferred to the Mansfield jail?”

What the what? Jail? ME? “I wasn’t in jail. You have me mistaken for someone else.”

“No, I don’t think I do. It was definitely you.”

I could feel my blood pressure begin to rise. Huh. I guess this comes with turning 40. Weird. “Look, I wasn’t in jail two weeks ago! Or two weeks before that! Or, EVER!”

There was an awkward silence. And also? COULD THIS LINE *MOVE* ANY SLOWER??!!

And then I let out an audible sigh. Good. The interrogation seemed to be over.

“Are you sure it wasn’t you? Because you LOOK just like the girl who sat next to me on the van.”

“Oh my god. Was the girl arrested for drunk driving? Or for killing her husband?”

Laughs. “I think she was arrested for theft.”

“Yeah. That wasn’t me.”

“Hmm. Wow. Well, you sure look like her.”

“You probably have me mistaken for Britney Spears.”

“Nope. That’s not it. You look like the girl from jail.”

“Oh really? Well, your mom looks like the girl from jail.”

Yeah. So… It was pretty much like every other day.

Minus the me wearing a bra thing.