What kind of name is Super Tuesday? It sounds like a day for sitting in front of a flat screen TV with a sporting event and a six-pack. Was it a name given by kids who get the day off because their school is being used as a polling station?
Maybe I should be more reverent about voting. It’s said to be a privilege … even when you end up with a leader like George W. Bush. My candidate almost never wins. If I were superstitious, I’d vote for the person I don’t want. I’d never not vote … for all the obvious reasons, but also out of deference for the people who volunteer at the polls. Those are the oldest people you see anywhere. They’re so old, they have early bird dinners at noon. Are they selected because they’ve shrunk enough to be comfortable using the teeny, low toilets in elementary schools? Or was there only one training session for working at the polls … and it was back when Harry Truman was on the ballot?
In some ways, voting is like dating … especially when there are propositions to consider. Though you know better than to believe the promises, you convince yourself this time it will be different. And regardless of how many times you’ve done it in the little, private room you’re never totally confident about what you’re doing. Am I sure I’m making the right choice? Is it okay to favor someone just because he has a Jewish name? Which way am I supposed to pull? Could I catch something in here? Will I be sorry in the morning?
Then—suddenly—it’s over, and you have to live with the consequences. And when you’re done in that little room, there’s always another woman eager to take your place.