
I needed to renew my driver’s license, an ordinary task for most people. Not for me.
I drove to the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) on a Wednesday afternoon thinking the room would be less crowded. I was correct. When I arrived, there was one person in the waiting room and two clerks behind the counter.
I approached the counter and cheerfully said I wanted to renew my driver’s license. One clerk looked up and pointed me to the kiosk at the front door.
“Take a number,” she instructed. I resisted the temptation to salute.
Shamed for not following proper procedures, I tiptoed back to the kiosk and pushed the button for driver’s license.
“Do you have an appointment?” The ominous message appeared on the screen.
“No.” I replied.
The screen went blank, and I started over. This time I typed that I wanted an appointment. (I really did.) The machine responded with a list of times. I started talking to the machine and said I already was there and the current time was fine so let me proceed. The kiosk didn’t care about or answer my verbal message.
I typed in the current time, and the machine started to process my request.
“Appointment approved,” the machine wrote. I felt special and thought I was ready. But, no.
“Scan the QR Code,” came the message. The machine mocked me as if guarding powerful secrets for entrance into an ancient Egyptian tomb.

I grumbled as I fumbled through my purse, found my cell phone, and managed to open the camera to scan the magic but elusive entry code. Alas, my phone wouldn’t capture the code. I continued to talk to the Kiosk with frustration and a growing irritation. Another person who knew the rules entered the building and stood behind me. My anxiety activated my heart defibrillator.
Finally, a uniformed official appeared from another room and asked me to follow her. I wondered if a group of employees had been secretly recording me to make a training video to be used throughout the state. The video would warn DMV employees how to deal with vintage women who started driving tractors on the farm at age 14, had driven for sixty years without needing to prove their ability to drive, and resented being told to take a number.
So, to survive the situation, I flew away on my dragon.
I have a lifelong habit of dealing with stress by escaping into my imagination. For the rest of my time at the DMV, I was victoriously riding on a fire-breathing dragon. This liberating image allowed me to finish renewing my license, agree that my weight had remained the same for 40 years, and leave the building without hurting anyone.
Once back in my car, I told the dragon to go back into my imagination, and I would summon him when needed.
The dragon replied, “Take a number.”






























