I know you’re aching to know how all my household crises are going. I’m happy to report that I got my new roof yesterday. (They taught me in radio broadcast to pronounce the double-o in roof like “brew,” not “look,” but I always feel a little pretentious doing it. Though I do do it.) It was a bit of a surprise, actually. I had understood the representative who’d last called me  to say that they were going to delay it a couple days, but there they were at 7:00 a.m., smack in the middle of my writing time. I’d wanted to warn my neighbors (with whom I share a driveway) about their arrival, but there was no time for that now. And they parked their dumpster trailer for the scraps right in that driveway.

The workers, however, labored rapidly and efficiently, and they cleaned up so well afterward that the yard looks better than before. And my new shingles are what they call “architectural,” which seems to mean they’re thicker. Quite nice looking, really.

My air conditioner, on the other hand, remains a dead soldier. I get a call from the HVAC company every few days, telling me they’re still waiting for the replacement compressor being sent by the home warranty company. That compressor is apparently a rare and precious item, and must be transported over the smoothest roads at a speed of no more than 30 mph.

I did get another thing accomplished, though, on Monday. I went to the Minnesota equivalent of the DMV, sat for an hour or so, and got my driver’s license renewed. Which brings us to the curious incident of the license photo.

By some strange providence, I do not share the common human complaint of taking bad document photos. It’s an irony that a man as unattractive as I am almost always takes a good picture. My old license photo was rather charming (if I do say so myself). I looked a little like Gabby Hayes in mid-chuckle.

But for some odd reason I found myself thinking about how to make the new photo better. I decided I wanted to look forceful. Stare directly into the lens. Be forthright. An alpha male. A Chad.

When I saw the final photo, though, I was a little shocked. The photo at the top of this post suggests its expression (just add 40 years, 50 pounds, and a gray beard).

I had no intention of looking angry. Just determined. But angry is what I got.

And it occurs to me to ask, “Does this contribute to my lifelong problem with making eye contact?”

I’ve long known that direct eye contact makes me uncomfortable. This is common in people on the autistic scale, even low on the scale (as I appear to be).

But if this is how I look when I do make eye contact, maybe I scare other people too. Maybe when I run away, they’re running as well.

It’s kind of like the mark of Cain. Troubling.