What Don't I Love?

Fictional Episcopal rector Father Tim Kavanaugh and wife Cynthia play a kind of word game in the surprisingly addictive Mitford series of books by Jan Karon. Cynthia unwittingly initiates the game when she pronounces an object of her affection. Father Tim responds with a question, "Ah, Kav'na, what don't you love?"  Cynthia then provides a short recitation of what she detests. It might go something like this: "Needless rules and regulations, foxglove seeding itself in our rose beds, age spots", or "The spelling of Jane Austen's surname with an i, cold showers, fake orchids." 

Were someone to play the role of Father Tim right now and pose his question to me, I would answer without hesitation, "I do not love driver's license renewal."  More accurately, I hate it. The requirement to renew in person only comes once around every six years, but this may be the worst part of turning another year older this week. Standing in line to get a number so that I can sit in line with what looks more like a police lineup than upstanding citizens performing their civic duty, is closely akin in my mind to being stuck in an elevator. Suspended in a devil's limbo, I feel like I've done something wrong and am about to receive some unwelcome sentence like community service collecting trash along a public thoroughfare while wearing an orange jumpsuit. The chairs are scrunched too close to allow anyone to pass without becoming physically intimate with you, and the person perched next to me now feels like a long lost Siamese twin attached at the hip.  

When my number is finally called by an automated voice, I depart my shadow and push past the other inmates to face the warden behind counter number four. I can't tell if it's due to a bad hair day (not having any context to go on), but Minerva is obviously perturbed with her job and I happen to be the face of it for the moment. She forces me to become a contortionist by demanding I position my fingers and thumbs on her hand sensor at an uncomfortable height and odd angle.  Finally, fingerprints are scanned, photographic image captured, eye exam passed, and I'm ready to pay the renewal fee. I reach across the counter and hand Minerva my debit card only to hear her declare that the credit card machine is not working. "Do you have another form of payment?"  By an act of divine grace I did (in may car), and after a time and energy consuming trek to and from the distant parking area, finally received my temporary license - Happy birthday to me! "Ah, Fowlkes, what don't you love?" Don't get me started (again).