The Odd Act of Voting
As most Americans know, for those that choose to bypass the method of vote-by-mail, the act of voting is a little bizarre. Think about it. You get in your car. Drive to some building, usually a school or library. Walk across the parking lot from your vehicle to the door. To the right, you notice about 500 campaign signs just off the property ground, with people gathered there making noise, wearing political t-shirts and hats. And they have buttons. So many buttons.
As you turn back to the building, you see a line formed outside that stretches from the front door away to the corner of the building and down around the side. A sigh exudes from your inner depths and you take your place. For what seems like an eternity, you shuffle along. The man in front of you turns back at some point and starts making small talk about pretty much all the things you don’t care about. You smile every so often and say, “Yeah.”
Bud turns back to face the front of the line after 10 minutes of chatter, and you check your phone for the 15th time. Nobody has notified you of anything, and the sun beats down on your forehead. You ask yourself if it is worth it. Of course it is, you say. This is your civic duty, right? You straighten yourself up, focusing in on the task at hand. For the next 15 minutes, you proceed further along. You reach the door. Bud walks in, and because you will never see him again for each of your respective existences, he wishes you luck with the rest of your life.
As you enter, you are greeted by a team of old women at desks. In front of each of them is a string of alphabet letters associated with last names, and you pick yours out. You reach Agnes, and tell her your name. She doesn’t hear you. You say it again. She smiles and asks you for that one more time. You basically yell your name. She seems a little taken back, and flips through the book. She seems so happy when she finds your name. Handing you a pen, you are told to sign your name where you see your name, and it is done. You are now ready to actually vote.
Agnes points you to the booth where you pick who you want to be hired for various elected office positions this year. Moseying over, you see Bud’s trucker hat over the top of the booth next to you, and he mumbles to himself about a “no good judge.” You pick up a pencil and stare at your ballot.
After you fill out your bubbles for the main event of President and Congress, you look at the list of names for the school board and sheriff. You literally have no idea who these people are. Do you leave it blank, or do you pick one that looks nice to you? You choose the former and make your way to the amendments. Now, these are worded funny, but you did try and do some research on them beforehand. However, some of the things you read are now lost in the thoughts you have of Agnes and the man with the buttons outside. It could be that you are suffering somewhat from heat exhaustion. You need to get out there, and so you fill out the rest as quickly as possible. You take your ballot, stuff it in the electronic voting machine scanner thingy, grab your “I Voted” sticker, and run out of the building to your car.
Fidgeting with delirium, you put your key in the ignition and turn. The air starts to flow through the cabin and you pull the sticker from your pocket. Frantically, you peel the sticker from the adhesive and slap it on your chest. Grabbing your phone, you take a photo, and in 45 seconds it is posted to Facebook, Snapchat, Instagram, Tinder, Myspace, Google+, and Twitter. There. It’s official. You voted.
We are six months away from repeating this timeless act. The greatest hour of your year. Can you feel the excitement in the air?
