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  • Writer's pictureJenny Wynter

You Tarzan, Me Stressed

So I had to get my drivers licence replaced today. A pain in the butt at the best of times, let alone when you’ve delayed it for months and are only now squeezing it into your overpacked list of things to do because you’ve just found out that in the USA, they’ll often ask you for TWO forms of ID to let you onto your flight.

Hmph.

So I lined up. For ages. Until getting to the counter, only to find that I had not brought sufficient ID with me.

Hmph.

Three hours later, I returned. And lined up. For ages. Until getting to the service counter, only to find that apparently my phone bill didn’t count as sufficient proof of address, seeing as it had my married name on it.

Me: “But see here? My Medicare card shows me, my hubby, his last name and our kids, look, they have both of our names!”

Her: “It makes no difference. I need the marriage certificate.”

Me: “But, but…that’s his name, and it’s just that they put his surname on my bill!”

Her: “As far as we’re concerned, this person (pointing to my name on the phone bill) doesn’t exist.”

Me: “Well gees, if I’d known that I didn’t exist, I wouldn’t have bothered paying the bill.”

Okay, so I just thought that last bit in my head.

The reality is that I started crying. Yes, in public. Not that it was even that upsetting in itself, it was more just the straw that broke the camel’s back. I’ve been so mega stressed trying to organise the entire trip, while completing work on several other projects I’m doing for other people, while still spending some semblance of good time with the family and as it goes in Shrek: “I’m a donkey on the edge!!!”

Without, you know the donkey bit.

As it turned out, I went back to my car and realised that miracle of miracles, I actually HAD my tax statement sitting in my glovebox, complete with my full real address and my full real name in full real ink and everything. I returned, triumphant, to claim my rightful licence, trying to ignore the fact that in my new ID photo I now have puffy post-cry eyes.

Hmph.

But as my great fellow impro-junkie Marc said to me the other day “Oh yeah, poor Jenny, let’s just all feel sorry for Jenny, she’s gotta go to New York and spend all that money on comedy. Ooh, your life really sucks.

Touche.

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