I have been struggling with the seemingly straightforward task of getting my 7-year-old daughter a replacement social security card. Since this involves dealing with the government, it of course cannot be straightforward. NOT TO MENTION it touches on my not-so-submerged issues of why she doesn't have her social security card in the first place. Here is a very subtle hint--- it has to do with her abandoning,abusive, so-called father( may he be free of suffering and the roots of suffering.) Anyway, I have filled out the forms and am supposed to take all my paperwork to the office, but the application says that she and I each have to present 2 forms of I.D. and they don't accept birth certificates. How many 7-year-olds have any I.D? I want to avoid going to stand in line,inching my way to an apathetic clerk who I KNOW will tell me to leave and come back with a certain piece of paper that I have never heard of. Since I am a modern woman with access to a phone and a computer I think I can get some questions answered before I drive up there and stand in line. The local office never answers their phone, and the national number is an automated service that consistently spirals me back to requesting the application which I already have ,wadded up in my clenched fist. The automated system is voice activated so I keep calling back trying to rephrase my question in some magical way that will allow me to talk to a real person. In the midst of this I am clinging to the hope that my parents will babysit my daughter Harley so that I can make it to the Wed. a.m. yoga class, but alas, they can't. At this point my little girl is advising me to back away from the phone and take a break, but I am determined to win against this blasted system, so I continue to call, finally whimpering to please talk to a real person. The computerized voice assures me, over and over that it is set up to handle all my needs. So, like any sane person would do I begin cursing and banging the phone repeatedly down on the receiver. Thinking this might be actually effective, I put the phone back to my ear, where the preternaturally calm voice says," I didn't understand your last response. Could you please repeat that?" I eventually actually make it to a yoga class that night where Gina COINCIDENTALLY tells a story about a woman in the DMV office who, because of her yoga practice, is able to calmly and lovingly start over in line after being told that she has made it all the way to the front of the wrong line. Here I am today, preparing to go to the social security office with my wadded-up application And my intention to use this opportunity to practice equanimity and peace. I am going to wear my kula teeshirt in hopes that it will inspire me, as belonging to the kula itself has inspired me, to be a better person. Or if that doesn't happen, hopefully even I would be embarrassed to indulge in a fit of rage while wearing a yoga shirt! OK, here goes.............