going through the change

I'm changing my name.

This means that I get to visit exciting new places. Like the Social Security Office.

Sure, it sounds innocuous enough. I mean, these are the fine people that issue those cute blue cards featuring not-quite-mature versions of our signatures.

Of course, I chose to go to one of the more colorful outlets. Downtown Providence. At noon. On a Wednesday.

It seemed like a good idea. Really. It's a block away from where I work. How more convenient can you get?

I made it through the metal detector and gained legal entry into the dark federal office building. Took the elevator to the third floor and followed the signs.

The security guard knew I was out of my element. He said to expect it to take over an hour. I looked at the number ("now serving 20") and at the ticket available ("28").

"How could it possibly take that long?" Apparently once your number gets called, they often send you back to wait for someone else. I'm not really clear as to the reasoning behind this. I figured if I was going to have to go back up to the window later, after waiting for an hour, I'd give up and trust the U.S. Postal Service with all of my major life documents and do the whole thing by mail. (Is it just me, or is that totally insane that they offer that as an option? Why in god's name would you put your marriage license and social security card in an envelope and mail them? On purpose. Who are the crazy people who do this?)

Thankfully, the guard was wrong, and I was out of there in half an hour. But, man, that's not a happy place to be. The whole room is buzzing with this insane stressful energy (partially due to the high percentage of people who are talking to themselves, and partially due to the single moms who have brought their four-year-olds and two-year-olds with them), while at the same time being overwhelmingly depressing. Kind of like the Pit of Despair on crack.

Next stop: the DMV.