This morning, after six long years, I got a new driver’s license.  Normally getting a new license isn’t cause for celebration, but consider this: when I got my license renewed six years ago, I was 8.5 months pregnant.  And in desperate need of a haircut.  And pre-LASIK.  Essentially, for about six years, I’ve carried a license that looks nothing like me.  I’ve dealt with tons of skeptical TSA agents who take twice as long to scour my license and my face, trying to make the match before whistling, “Wow.  This doesn’t look like you at all.”  I know.  I’ve dealt with overzealous Kohl’s cashiers checking to ensure my license matches my credit card.  “You cut your hair!”  I know.  I’ve had friends laugh their asses off when entering bars, “Holy crap!  Look at that!”  I know, already.