There’s an old football saying — attributed to an array of old football coaches — that goes something like this:

“If you’re 5 minutes early for a meeting, you’re 10 minutes late.”

Extrapolate from there, and you realize that if you arrive just as the doors of the Department of Motor Vehicles office open, you’re really late.

Like … really, really, really late.

Take it from No. 37, which became my identity when I arrived at the Ashland DMV office to renew my driver’s license and found not only that there was no available parking, but there was a line of drivers earmuffed around the front of the building.

Sorry, coach.

I decided to run an errand or two and come back in 30 minutes or so, when the line would no doubt be shorter — which it was, if only because the early arrivals had been let inside out of the heat.

I joined them and took my deli-style ticket.

Thirty-seven seemed like a good, solid number for an office that would be open for 7.5 hours (not including an hour lunch break). It was then I got my first glimpse at the red-digital counter mounted on the wall.

“92”

I started doing the math. If the numbers were running down, 54 ticket-holders would be served before me. That did not seem promising, so I gave myself a dope-slap for doing those errands before I took a number.

“Number 93,” came the call from one of the pair of pleasant, but quite busy, workers at the service counter.

OK, so just 43 deli-ticket holders before me. A gentleman by the readout said the day had started at 82, so 11 people had been served in about 45 minutes — which is the math that started giving me a headache.

This was not my fault. It was the state’s, I reasoned, for requiring an in-person eye test for renewals if you happen to be at least 65 (in age, not ticket number). My eyes are working just as well as they were at 64, when the optometrist assured me that I would not need to change the prescription I got when I was 63.

We were quite the assortment of deli orders awaiting to be filled. Folks of various ages — some with books, some with snacks, some with dogs — made temporary friendships as the numbers increased … ever … so … slowly … on the wall.

No. 14 seemed to be the Yoda of the group, dispensing the wisdom and empathy needed if we were going to be here for hours.

I sat between No. 11, who seemed bemused at it all, and No. 27 — who had to leave by 2:30 for a medical appointment.

A ticket-taker returned after a few errands of her own and lamented the pace of the proceedings.

“I was here an hour ago,” she said.

“Just one,” responded No. 14, and everyone in earshot tried to suppress our laughter.

I was ill-prepared for what was now obviously going to be a day-long exercise in patience. No book. No snacks. No dog. Not even a cellphone (surprise!) to scan.

It’s amazing how you can lose track of time and yet simultaneously feel the weight of it trudging along. Calculations were going on in my head that I hadn’t used since high school. I thought I’d safely make it in the afternoon session.

When No. 14 was called up, the room broke out in cheers. When a number was called and the ticket-holder apparently had decided not to wait, the cheers were louder.

When the lunch break came, we had reached No. 22. “Don’t lose your tickets,” we were advised.

Patience was in short supply after the break, at least from where I was sitting. I’d had it with the dogs who had extended their leashes ominously sniffing my shoes. Every laugh now seemed like a record being scratched by a stylus.

Enough with the idle chit-chat, Mr. You Know What Number You Were.

And would someone please help the little girl who had pleaded, “Gramma, I hasta go potty” at least a dozen times? At least before she comes closer to my shoes?

“No. 27”

It was 10 after 2; she’d made it by 20 minutes, only to be blindsided by someone else who demanded her questions be answered out of turn. I wanted a button nearby that would open a trap door beneath her.

An hour later, my moment arrived and — not wanting to repeat this process in a year or so — I opted to get a Real ID instead of the standard license. I aced the eye test (take THAT, ageist Oregon bureaucrats!) and sat myself down for my new picture.

“You,” the DMV counterperson said, “look the same as you did eight years ago.”

No doubt, I felt, because that’s when I had arrived at the office.