There are certain places on Earth where time has no meaning. The Bermuda Triangle. Black holes. And the DMV.

I learned this again the hard way this week.

Now, I wasn’t new to the DMV rodeo. Just a few years ago I strutted in with an online appointment, was ushered to the front like a VIP at a very sad nightclub, and was out in 13 minutes. Thirteen! A New York miracle. A record-breaker. Something you brag about at parties. Back then, online appointments were still the secret handshake of the enlightened. A quiet nod between you and the universe that maybe (just maybe) you’d cracked the code.

So like a fool, an optimist, a believer in progress (clearly I was delusional), I thought that now, with even more technology at our disposal, things would be even more efficient.

Let me tell you that I was wrong. I was Beyoncé-singing-“listen” wrong.

I checked in early for my  appointment, feeling smug and prepared. The receptionist looked at me with the calm of someone who has seen souls shatter and simply said:

“There’s a three hour and fifteen minute wait.”

Excuse me?
Three hours and fifteen minutes?
My heart left my body. My brain refused to compute.

Apparently, appointments are now just entry tickets. You get in the door, and then you sit. And stew. And marinate in the shared despair of strangers. The inefficiency was so thick you could spread it on toast.

Everywhere I looked, humanity was crumbling. People arguing about documents. Folks forgetting their glasses. One poor soul tried to use Pennsylvania mail as proof of New York residence. I overheard that one and honestly, my inner psychologist wanted to hand out coping skills worksheets.

And then there was the legend of Counter 16.

One man stood there for 53 minutes. Fifty-three! I had enough time to imagine his entire backstory, his childhood, his hopes, his dreams, his regrets. I felt like I was binge-watching his life in real time. Meanwhile, my own brain cells were dying slow, dramatic deaths. I swear I heard them begging for mercy.

This is where hope goes to wilt.
Where patience goes to shrivel.
Where time crawls up into a ball and whispers, “I quit.”

In the end, I got it done. But I left the DMV a different person. Older. Wiser. A little emptier inside.

And next time?
I’m bringing snacks, a charger, a novel, and maybe a therapist.

Because the DMV doesn’t care about your plans. The DMV is where efficiency goes to take a long nap and never wakes up.