The pandemic is a terrible thing. But it is the best thing to ever happen to the Department of Motor Vehicles. At least from the perspective of this resident of the District of Columbia, that is. Hear me out.
We have all been there, or heard what it is like to be there. Abhorring the DMV and its Kafkaesque procedures is practically an American tradition. Growing up, I recall family members speaking of a trip to the DMV in absolutely funereal tones. Loved ones would hug and kiss the departing soul, uncertain of when or if they would return. The goodbyes would then echo throughout the silent household with bleak anxiety only comparable, I am sure, to that of families ravaged by military draft orders.