In the last four days, the DMV started cropping up in conversation. In person, I heard the story of a dreamwork friend who endured a half-hour of fussing when she went to replace her lost license because her fingerprint didn’t match the one on record. She found out later that her office job—handling papers treated with various chemicals—could be the culprit. Then on Facebook, a couple of friends mentioned having just been or needing to go to the DMV. My husband and I both had renewals up, so we decided to go in together, and at least have good company while we waited. Because I was going, we took our car for the trip across town. Otherwise, my husband would have ridden his bike. When we got there, we found out we’d need proof of residency, a change just instituted today and not dramatically obvious when I looked on the website for what I’d need to bring. Fortunately, since we’d brought our car, we had one of the list of ten possible documents to fulfill this new requirement—our vehicle registration. While we sat there waiting, I saw two men in line recognize each other, though it had clearly been a while since they’d last met. They knew each other’s first names, but not what their connection was. Later I commented to my husband, “Maybe we’ll get the clerks right next to each other and it’ll be easy to share our proof.” Our chances were one out of three, since the third clerk sat a few stations away from the other two. Sure enough, we got the clerks right next to each other, who were happy to share our proof, and the woman who helped me asked if I wanted to write my check for both of ours. She then deftly paid cash for my husband’s out of her drawer to his clerk’s drawer, wrote both our numbers on the check and we were half way done, with astonishing efficiency and kindness. My husband finished just moments before me, so was ahead of me in line as we took our seats to await the next step—the fingerprint and photo. His went smoothly. Mine, guess what. The fingerprint didn’t quite match. Instead of being freaked out or annoyed, I laughed to myself as the clerk had me move my finger this way and that, trying to get it to match the old one. She said she could see they were the same, just one or two lines slightly off, but the computer wouldn’t recognize it, so she had to fetch her supervisor and have him override it. It took an extra five minutes or so, and thanks to having seen my friend’s experience in the light of dreamwork, it made me wonder in what ways I’ve become a different person since the last time I gave a fingerprint to the DMV.