After my first few months in Los Angeles went down surprisingly easily, the last month since winter break has been a TAD rough.
Before I go on any further, I'll just put it out there that I pride myself on being someone for whom things don't get too rough for. Things get me down, obviously, and I wallow in it for an hour or so, get bored of feeling that way, and then bounce back. But the last two weeks have been a test of that, and it all culminated with a trip to the DMV.
Aside from taking it upon myself to work one million hours last week (cry me a river, I know) --on my one free day, I went to the DMV to get my car registered.
The DMV is one of those institutions that no one could possibly have a good experience at, despite an unwavering optimist like myself's best efforts. You know a few things going in: you are going to have to wait a long time, you are going to fill out a lot of boring paperwork and the only thing to break up the monotony of waiting in the most sterile, institutional room known to modern architecture, is encountering a variety of crazy people there. I thought that last thing might at least make the experience interesting--where else is a shoeless hippie and a rich executive forced to wait in the same small enclosed space for so long? This very dynamic was revealed as soon as I started to wait on line at the Santa Monica DMV, when I heard two rich older gentlemen hatching a plan to use their senior citizen status to somehow cut in line. Classic. Not TODAY, gents.
Long story short, aside from a crazy woman screaming at a DMV attendant, the wait was boring and dragged on even longer than I anticipated. The most hilarious part of this wait period is that there is a digital screen at the front of the room which flashes the expected wait time. SANTA MONICA EXPECTED WAIT TIME 1 HOUR 45 MINUTES. But. They also feel the need to flash the expected wait time at other DMV locations, such as CULVER CITY EXPECTED WAIT TIME: 0 MINUTES. Like they have to rub it in your face that you chose the wrong DMV to go to, and its too late at this point to change that fact, so all you can do is imagine what it's like at the amazing Culver City location where there is no wait time and most likely everyone is getting free cider and red velvet cupcakes.
After one hour and 55 minutes, my name was finally called, and I bounded up to the desk, excited and ready to go, showing the clerk that the long wait of sitting next to the unhappiest people in the world didn't phase me, and that no beaurocratic institution will turn me into every other dejected, tired figure walking out of the DMV doors. No it won't!
And then I found out that my 2 hour wait had been in vain, for I needed to get a Smog Test before being registered. What the hell is that? Never heard of a Smog Test before and I didn't know whether to blame my parents, teachers or the state of Illinois for never warning me of this.
I could get my smog test done at the gas station down the road and I could pay now if I wanted to. My mother had warned me it might be $100, which I had mentally prepared for the entire night before. Instead, the cost for the privilege of registering your car in California is $220, and the smog test would be an additional 50. This is where my Nothin' Getting Me Down Attitude started to break down a little bit. I had worked overtime so I could finally go shopping and buy clothes and shoes that didn't have holes in them, so that I could at least pretend to walk throughout Los Angeles like the self-respecting Westward Hoe that I know DEEP DOWN I AM. Instead I would have to work more shifts the next week and sacrifice more valuable screenwritin' time.
I drove to the the damn Smog Test station, and paid the attendant with what I expect was the most pitiful, defeated expression possible on my face. And then I went to have my pity party on a brown metal chair while they looked at my car. I sat in the hot sun, sweating, dirty, knowing I wouldn't have time to shower before work, knowing that I was a 24-year old piece of shit who was getting slapped in the face with real life. I wanted to cry about how HARD it all was and then I wanted to cry about what a wimp I was being.
Deciding I was hungry, I went to get a snack at the gas station next to the Smog test station. I picked up a granola bar and waited behind three older women with big sunglasses who were crossing their arms and tapping their feet, waiting for a small, Arabian man who was trying to fix their credit card transaction.
"It's like we're being held hostage here," one woman muttered.
"I am trying to fix, try card again,"the man pleaded.
The machine wouldn't work and with every passing minute the women became more aggravated and more antagonistic toward the poor gas station attendant. It was truly awkward to watch.
Finally, they left and the man cried "I have one more customer like this, I die."
I told him I was happy to pay with cash and I was sorry they were so rude.
He genuinely seemed relieved that I too was not biting his head off, and when I finally left once my car passed the smog test, he gave me an appreciate wave.
So herein lies my thesis statement, or statements. No one cares about your pity party. Everyone is too busy having their own pity party. And no matter how bad your day is, someone else's day is worse. So you can either add to their problems, or you can try and find the strength to be a human and make someone else's day more bearable. Of course these women didn't see it as this man's pity party, they saw it as their own. Maybe they all were having bad days, maybe they had to wait at the DMV for two hours and all they wanted was a coffee and to leave, and this man got in their way. And that's one of the first things I've encountered moving to LA, or maybe its just growing up. Everyone's problems mount as they get older, and so its not as easy to make other people's lives easier when you are too busy struggling with your own.
But as I drove home and hit rush hour traffic, I started to feel really, really good knowing that I had found it in myself to be nice to this dude. I was the BEST. I hit the corner of Santa Monica and ran into this.
Everyone was honking and you could see the frustration in every car because, what else is worse in Los Angeles than traffic like this. But at this point, I was laughing and bouncing to music, thinking--its 75 degrees! What is everyone so upset about?
After battling traffic, I went to work, and work was terrible, despite my revamped attitute and I wanted to get out early and just fall asleep. Alas, I lost a coin toss with my coworker and I had to stay until close. I was tired and dirty and had made no money. I dragged my defeated body Denny's and stuffed food into my mouth, not knowing what to take away from this day--whether my "good attitude" would carry itself through my life in Los Angeles or whether growing up meant being pissed off a lot and upset like everyone else.
All I ended up with while walking home was knowing that we're not kids anymore and we don't have time to feel sorry for ourselves when everyone else is making It happen despite life throwing the odds against them.
And I went to bed, ready to take on the next day.
