LXXXIV. My Elections Are Always Long, Hard

Every election I get all jazzed up to do my civic duty, yet it inevitably turns into a revealing act of shame and disgust. Just like lovemaking.

So with all the hoopla over the upcoming presidential election, I’d like to share my last voting experience….

On the day of the 2006 Texas Gubernatorial election, I gathered my materials – the recommendations from the Lubbock Avalanche, some printouts from Web sites and a firm feeling of voter indignation – and drove to my polling location. I was going to vote, and vote hard.

The woman at the registration table couldn't locate my name on voter rolls, so I let her have it.

"Ma'am, don't disenfranchise me. You wouldn't like me when I'm disenfranchised," I said with the devil in my eyes. A shaky hand passed me a ballot, and I walked over to an empty polling booth. It was flimsy, and I made a note not to lean on it.

I began to blacken my first bubble when the pen misfired. So I shook it violently until the remaining ink ejaculated across the flimsy tabletop. It was a mess, and in quick recovery, I attempted to wipe it up with my hand, which is always a poor notion. Ink spreads like syrup, randomly and without mercy. My voting booth skittered across the floor as I followed it, wiping frantically. Finally, I was forced to issue a weak "sorry, sir" to the gentleman whose ass stopped my forward progress.

With evaporated authority, I asked the woman for another pen.

"Having problems?" she grinned. I made a mental note to pray against her.

I started in on the ballot. Man, was I all over the place. In an orgy of frantic panic voting, I voted independent, Democrat, Republican and Libertarian. I knew nothing about any of the candidates, and I was voting for offices I had never even heard of, but I couldn't stop myself. I felt like a drunken slut giving herself to whoever had the sexiest name. I felt stupid. It wasn't until later that I even figured out Libertarians had nothing to do with libraries.

I had been voting for 45 minutes, and I was growing weary. I glanced around and envied the fresh, springy steps of straight-ticket voters as they walked away from the shredder into which we all equally feed our ballots. Then it happened. I leaned on the plastic voting booth, and it gave way. Down I went in a fantastic tumble of newspaper, ink and relief.

I popped up like a stunned prizefighter and stared at my mess. There was a black stencil of my forearm on the floor beside a torn, half-completed ballot. I ran out of the polling place with hot tears on my cheeks, hopped into my car and trained the rearview mirror on my face. I looked like a chimney sweep that had just seen a sad movie.

Later, as I sat in the hot shower, I swore that I was never again going to be seduced by the civic siren song of empowerment. Next time, I swear, I'll ignore the peer pressure that compels me to "vote, vote, vote." I know I'm not really ready for the responsibility.