It all started last Sunday

This week produced a sort of stress that I couldn't have predicted in a million years. I knew that I had to take a written test at the license bureau in order to switch over from an AZ license, so I spent the late night hours on Saturday and Monday reading the manual online. I had designated Tuesday as the day for testing and switching licenses, as well as renewing my plates.

Following a rather productive day at work, I drove to the closest BMV branch, noting that the IN.gov web site said it had an average of a 10-minute wait. But the place was packed as Tuesday is the only day they remain open 'til 7pm - everyone who had business to do post-working hours was there. I saw one of the maintenance men who's helped put my office in order this semester. He'd been waiting 45 minutes by the time I got there.

After waiting 30-40 minutes myself, I realized I needed to walk up and say I needed to take the written test. I did so, and finished the test rather quickly, despite the racket produced by everyone in the waiting area (which was not at all separated from the "testing area" aside from a different type of desk--testing ones had desk arms). A small 2-year-old boy and his dad being the noisiest. While they were grading my test, Heather started filling out the computer form to expedite the process. She'd been there all day dealing with major computer problems and cranky patrons, but she was pleasant, even friendly.

She looked at all of my forms of identification and address verification, and another woman took my social security card to a back room to "run" something, though no one said what it was they were running. Heather also got me the correct new license plate with proper registration, and all was going very well until the woman who'd taken my soc. card called from the back room:
"Heather, wait a second. Just wait a minute."
Heather asked if she'd need to push this into deferment, but the woman called, "just wait a second," before appearing from the back room with a piece of printed computer paper.
"What's the deal?" Heather asked.

The woman didn't speak, but held out the paper so only Heather could see, emphatically underlining a particular line on it with her finger and glancing at me with a strange expression.
"Oh, okay." Heather began gathering my pieces of identification, including my AZ license, which she'd tossed behind her into a trash receptacle as we'd begun the process.

"This is what you'll need to do..." and she pushed the pile towards me. "You'll need to go to the social security office and get a verification of your social security number."
When I asked why, she sucked air in through her teeth quickly and said, "oooh, um, I can't tell you that. All I can say is that it's for your protection and the protection of others that we take this precaution. In the age of identity theft, you can't be too careful."

At that point, my insides flipped, and with my mind racing, I could barely follow what was going on. She renewed my plates, though, and gave me the total amount I owed.
"How will you be paying?"
"Check," I said numbly, still processing the soc. card incident as I drew out my pen and checkbook.
A moment passed as I flipped through to the right check, and she stammered, "I can't take a check from you...You have an out-of-state driver's license."

I stared in complete shock. I had proof of my residence in hand, but that, apparently, wasn't enough. "Credit," I whispered.

I left in a daze. Had my identity been called into question twice in one week? Why did I need to go to the social security office? How did I even find one? Had someone stolen my identity - my soc. number or something? Were my bank accounts being drained right then as I stood blankly staring on the downtown sidewalk?

I was late, at that point, to my Tuesday evening class in Muncie, but I was determined to make it there and have a good night anyway. But when I started my car, I was greeted with a red light indicating I had no gas. I blew up.

I was shaking -- mixed fear and anger was coursing through my veins. I couldn't make it to class and do anything if I stopped for gas. I also realized that I didn't have time to visit a Social Security office in the next two days. Elaine was coming. I was in charge of meeting on Thursday with several faculty members. I had software training on Wednesday. I wouldn't be able to sort it all out until at least Friday. AND I HAD NO GAS IN MY CAR.

For two days I stewed over a stolen identity. Would people at the SSO believe I was me? Would they scrutinize my ID as the bouncer had done on Sunday? Would they accept my soc. card, as the license branch had not done Tuesday?

I was shaking when I arrived at the SSO on Friday afternoon, having taken a half-day at work. I was the only person in the place, but still had to take a numbered ticket and wait. A woman called my number. I stumbled over my words, telling her that the license branch had sent me over though I wasn't sure why.
"Verification of your social security number?"
"Sure," I said and shrugged.
She looked me up in the computer and printed something out verifying I was who I said I was. At least somebody believed me this week!

"They send just about everyone with an out-of-state license over here these days with that new computer system," she said, telling me more with those few words than the hundred from Heather's mouth on Tuesday.

I stopped by a different license branch, shortly thereafter, still very nervous that I'd be turned away yet again. I had all my documentation plus the SSO verification, but my hands were shaking.

The girl helping me asked why I had had to get the Soc. verification.
"I don't know," I said truthfully, "It was top secret. They wouldn't tell me."
She laughed and proceeded to explain that the "info check" they ran on my card was standard procedure for out-of-staters, like myself, and that they should have at least mentioned that to me.

Thus the ordeal ended. My identity was not stolen. I am who I say I am, in case any of you had started to doubt me.

With all of this behind me, I am now officially an IN resident with a license and plates to prove it.