How Not To Renew Your License Plates

So, Sunday I washed my car.

Which probably sounds like a normal, everyday activity—even for me.

And it was…right until the moment when I was hunched down behind it, scrub scrub scrubbing away, and I took a good look at the license plate.

‘That’s odd,’ I said to myself. ‘That looks like my license plate expired in June.’

Sunday, in case anyone’s wondering, was JULY 7^th.

And I had a vague memory of Opie waving some little postcard thing at me a while ago and saying something about “renewing your tags.”  And he might have reminded me once or even twice since then.  And it’s possible that I responded, “I know, I’m not an IDIOT.”

Which meant it would have been a really bad idea to wander into the house and ask him if he had any idea where that pesky postcard had disappeared to…especially since when this same thing happened in Missouri, (Yes, that’s right, the exact same thing happened just a few years ago.  Don’t judge me. I am a CREATIVE TYPE and a FREE SPIRIT, I can’t be expected to understand things like deadlines and government regulations.)

Anyway last time this happened, the state of Missouri charged me some ridiculous fine and few things infuriate Opie more than throwing money away.

Besides, whenever I am facing a problem completely of my own creation, I prefer not to tell Opie until 1 of the 2 following things have occurred:

1.      I have solved it myself.

Or, as is more often the case,

2.      I don’t solve anything but stew about the whole thing for hours, exaggerating the situation in my head and imagining the worst case scenario.  Then I erupt into hysterics, shouting things like “I can’t believe I forgot to renew those stupid plates! But I did and now they’re expired and it’s probably going to cost us THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS and even then I’ll probably still go to prison.  PRISON!  CAR PRISON!  I’M GOING TO CAR PRISON, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

Seriously, it’s hard for me to imagine how interminably dull Opie’s life must have been before I came back into it.

In any case, first thing Monday morning, I got up, spent half an hour searching for the postcard and then realized that I also needed my proof of insurance.  Which was supposed to be in the car but was missing because someone had mysteriously moved it into the house and hidden it in a stack of other important papers (I suspect the cat). 

Finally, I gathered everything together, got to the office at the exact moment they opened and was somehow still fourth in line, got to the counter, muttered “I’m a little late” and braced myself for the worst.

“Oh, honey,” the clerk said. “Everyone forgets, that's why we give you a 30 day grace period.”

I think there might be hope for life Oklahoma after all!