It’s official: I live in Massachusetts.

Of course, I’ve done that for the past six and a half years, but — through a combination of fear, denial, and financial indignation — I just recently got around to changing my out-of-state driver’s license. I was only ... um ... 2250 days overdue.

I’d swapped states once before, from Virginia to North Carolina. That year, two days after Christmas, my law-abiding mother roused me practically at dawn, frantic that I not violate the 30-day grace period I had to change licenses. "Mom," I gasped, "it’s so early." She looked at her watch and fretted. "The lines can be long," she said ominously.

When I arrived in Massachusetts for college, I didn’t want to go through the hassle of changing my license yet again. Two years of undergrad studies passed; two years of grad school followed. I assumed that I might return to North Carolina some day — and if I did, and hadn’t changed my license, I would qualify for in-state tuition. (Of course, when it came time to pick a PhD program, I’d become so un-Dixie that I refused to apply anywhere south of Rhode Island.)

It was clear I’d become a Bay Stater, in all but the most technical sense — that pesky license. My mother’s warnings stuck with me, but with inverse effect: I feared a whole day of waiting in line and being yelled at by bureaucrats, and I couldn’t bring myself to spend an extortionary $70 for the privilege. My North Carolina license — ugly, tacky, and featuring huge raccoon eyes, thanks to my mother’s early-morning rallying — was good until 2003, and I was determined to keep it to the bitter end.

But guilt weighed on me. I stop at red lights — even on my bike — and didn’t touch alcohol until I was actually 21. I couldn’t take being a scofflaw. Most important, I was sick of watching liquor-store clerks examining my unfamiliar license skeptically and looking at me like I was some sort of criminal mastermind. Even the more trusting souls couldn’t locate my date of birth. "It’s the red," I repeated like a mantra. "The date is in red."

Periodically — and especially since September 11 — politicians kick around the idea of issuing national identity cards. Until they do so, the closest thing we have are state driver’s licenses. Yes, they have all the usual data: birth date, address, height, and sex. But somehow, we also make them part of ourselves.

One of the sweetest games of early-stage dating is pawing through your sweetheart’s wallet and asking about every picture, every saved fortune-cookie prediction, and every photo-ID card: "You look so good in that sweater!" "When was that taken?" "How long ago did you get your hair cut?"

And licenses can be a good conversation-starter. One friend who was living abroad came home and got a license in New York, where her mother was living. "One time, I was visiting Seattle, and the bouncer at a club I went to was so excited he had found another New Yorker," she recalls. But licenses also imply loyalty and allegiance to a state. "I was so embarrassed," she admits, "because I’ve never really even lived there."

Me? I was more than ready to take the plunge and make Massachusetts my own. But it was still a strange feeling to part physically with the card that I’d carried every day for years. The blazer, sweater, and red T-shirt I’m wearing in the photo are all sartorial history — the blazer out of style, the sweater stretched by the wash, the T-shirt full of holes. I don’t even know if I have other pictures of them to mark their once-favored place in my wardrobe.

Some of my friends are similarly nostalgic. One — now a lawyer — knew she had to exchange her Indiana license for a Virginia one in college. But she liked the Indiana license, damn it, and it was handy back home! Her solution: she simply re-took the driving test in Virginia and held on to two licenses. Totally illegal, but understandable — except for the part about being willing to take the test again. Another friend pretends to have lost her license every time it comes up for renewal, and keeps the old ones as souvenirs.

At the RMV, I got a ticket with a number on it, deli-style. But — ah, modernization! — it also included my estimated wait time (five minutes), and I could consult an electronic scoreboard that beckoned lucky ticket-holders forward. It was probably 15 minutes before I was called up, but I couldn’t begrudge them some tardiness — after all, I was a little overdue myself.

I didn’t walk away with a shiny new piece of plastic like I’d hoped. "You’ll get it in the mail in a couple of weeks," the woman at the desk told me. Instead, she gave me an elongated piece of white paper with my picture on it and an official ink-stamp. It wouldn’t fit in my wallet, so I had to fold it — twice. "Yeah," I thought, looking at the crease already disfiguring my photo-eyebrows, "Seven Hills Liquors is really going to believe this."

I suspect I’ll be too embarrassed to try any club-hopping, or even wine-buying, before my real card comes in the mail. But at least I can take comfort in the fact that I’ll never again have to say, "The red. The date is in red."

Dorie Clark admits her moral transgression and assures readers that in all other areas of her life, she is an exemplary citizen. She can be reached at DorieClark@aol.com