You never realize how old you look until you get your new driver’s license.

When I did it recently the folks at the license bureau were absolutely wonderful.

They painstakingly walked me through the procedure from Point A where they asked me if I was an American citizen or something like that to Point Z where they asked me if I saw a blinking light on the screen off to my left.

Then it was picture-taking time.

Older people approach photo shoots a lot differently than younger people.

Younger people just plunk down, say “cheese” or  whatever it is young people say when they are about to get their pictures taken and then they walk out of the place with a bounce in their step and a new driver’s license in their wallet or purse.

Older people, on the other hand, make a much bigger deal out of the whole thing.

On the day I was scheduled to get my new license, I acted like I was getting ready for my senior prom.

First I shaved, combed my hair, splashed on some aftershave and brushed my teeth.

I haven’t the foggiest idea why I brushed my teeth.

Maybe it was because I feared my teeth might look dingy or something in the photo.

Then it was time to get dressed and as I stood there stark naked in the bedroom, I debated for nearly 30 minutes on what color shirt to wear and another 30 minutes on whether or not to wear a necktie.

Then, after combing my hair for the umpteenth time, I climbed into the car and headed for the license bureau.

After a short wait a man called my name.

“Robert Blatz,” he said and I made my way to the counter.

“It’s Batz, not Blatz,” I told him and he said, “Sorry about that.”

The eye test was a piece of cake and those words of praise are coming from a man who hated all kinds of tests in grade school, junior high school, high school and college.

Then it was picture time.

The photo session came and went in a blink of the eye and within minutes I was called back to the counter to pick up my new license.

“Make sure all of the information is accurate,” the clerk said as he handed me the license.

I looked at it.

It was and then I glanced at the photo on my license.

I shook my head.

“Um . . . this isn’t my photo.” I said.

Then I added “You must have given me the wrong photo. This is a photo of a . . . um . . . much . . . um . . . older man.”

The clerk leaned over the counter and looked at the photo.

“No sir,” he said, flashing a friendly smile, “that’s you, all right.”

I quickly thanked him, then a nicely dressed man with clean teeth walked out of the license bureau with a severe case of depression.

Contact Bob at bbatz@woh.rr.com