Wholesome and Responsible Mark

Maybe the condom the lady at the California DMV saw me carrying was the determining factor in getting my license today. They don’t just hand those things out, you know.

Yes, it’s my birthday, which happens to be the day that I need to renew everything because I’ve always waited until the last second. As you’ve been told, I did pass what I feel is the equivalent to the State Bar of California. Funny how a few weeks of really achieving nothing can skew any sense of accomplishment; no joke, when I was told that I passed my written examination for the license, it felt like I had received my first MacArthur Fellow.

That’s one for me, and none for you. Try to keep up, Moo.

The night before I was warned that getting that license was no small feat, so I buckled down and studied the California Driver’s Handbook. This morning when I walked into the DMV, I understood that a solid grasp of the information in The Handbook was imperative, but so, too, was my presentation [though mesh shorts were acceptable with everyone situated behind a tall desk]. So if I greeted the person cordially, she would see before her a responsible and exemplary young citizen whom under no circumstances she would deny a permit. I met the lady at the counter with a polite greeting, hoping to put my best impression forth.

I had on a clean shirt and carried an inoffensive messenger bag. But since I wore mesh shorts, I had to keep my wallet and other day-to-day accouterments in a small, seldom-used flap of the bag.

It happened to be the same bag I had taken to Jamaica this past summer for a wedding. There, as a member of the groom’s party, I felt it appropriate to cull small items together for a gift bag to each person in my assembly. Being the wholesome and responsible person I was, and still am, I put prophylactics in the gift bags in the event that my friends found themselves fast in love, unable to wait any longer to consummate their affections. There ended up being an odd number of condoms, so instead of assaulting the good tastes of the hotel’s cleaning person by leaving the surplus in the litter, I placed it in my carryon bag to dispose of it back home.

Half a year later as I stood at the DMV counter applying for my license, the lady asked for my old Maryland permit and I went to retrieve it. I pulled my wallet from the bag and brought it to the counter, but there, predictably, between the fold of my wallet and in front of the lady, was the stowaway I had long forgotten about.

Nothing was said of the condom. Either she gracefully chose to ignore it while I put it away, or, as I believe, she silently applauded the overwhelming burden I had put upon myself to make this world a safer and more responsible place. At that point I believe she felt there wasn’t reason to assess me any further, and she simply sent me off to take the written test out of habit [for she had processed my new license and approved it before any news of my score!]. But even if the test was only administered out of formality—a hollow showing of fairness to the others hopelessly biding for their permits—it does not in any way curb my personal achievement.

So I’d like to thank all those who supported me from the start; my family, friends, and, of course, the legendary and uncompromising integrity of Mr. Durex.

One love,

mdf