Over the past year, I’ve endured eye surgery, a couple of other eye procedures and an assortment of eye medicines for an assortment of eye conditions. And it’s all left me with a pair of shiners worthy of a barroom brawler. Don’t feel sorry for me. Oh, go ahead. Feel sorry for me. I do.
I’m joking. I’m getting better every day—at least my eyes are. And the important thing is I can see. I just don’t want to be seen—or photographed. And wouldn’t you know it; somewhere in the middle of my ocular nightmare I realized it was time to renew my driver’s license.
My biggest fear was that I’d fail the vision test at the licensing office. I’ve always had an irrational fear of those anyway. But my doctor assured me I’d be fine. She believed in me—and my new $700 lenses.
I wasn’t convinced. Then when I was downloading the paperwork to apply for my renewal I discovered a vision form that, if it was filled out and signed by my doctor, would allow me to skip the vision test altogether. She signed it and I smiled all the way to the driver’s license office.
Not really. I was still worried they’d take one look at my eyes and decide they’d better test me just to be sure. When it was my turn I handed my paperwork to the man at the desk and held my breath. He looked through it and then he looked through it again. Maybe I was imagining it but he seemed to pay extra attention to the vision form.
When he laid my paperwork down I finally relaxed. I knew then that I’d escaped the vision test. All would be well. But then he said four little words that would strike fear into the heart of anyone who’s just been in a bar fight. “Let’s get your picture.”
My picture! I’d been so worried about the vision test that I hadn’t even considered the other scary part of renewing my license: getting my photo taken. If I’d thought about that, I’d have whitened my teeth and gotten a nose ring to draw attention away from my eyes.
As you know licensing staff don’t do glamour shots. The man at the counter didn’t set up studio lighting or coach me into posing just right. And he didn’t take a variety of photos so I could choose my favorite. He just said, “Take off your glasses and stand in front of the camera under our harsh fluorescent lights that make everyone look like they have severe anemia.”
No, that’s not what he said. But he did tell me to take off my glasses. I would have preferred to keep them on because they help hide my shiners but I did as I was told. I’d barely stepped in front of the camera when he snapped the photo. And faster than I could say, “I’m a driver not a fighter,” he handed me what will be my main form of identification for the next five years. I took one look and gasped.
I wanted to ask if he’d try again. Or Photoshop my photo. Or substitute a picture of Sandra Bullock. But he was already calling his next customer who, I happened to notice, had lovely eyes.
I realize our driver’s license photos are supposed to look like we look on a normal day. When we’re pulled over for speeding or standing in a long line at the airport, we’re not going to look our best—or like Sandra Bullock. But we’re probably not going to look like we’ve been in a boxing match either. And anyway, my eyes are healing. Eventually I won’t look like my driver’s license photo. At least I hope I won’t.
Dorothy Rosby is the author of “I Used to Think I Was Not That Bad and Then I Got to Know Me Better” and other books.
Contact her at www.dorothyrosby.com/contact.