One writer's struggle with Election Day jitters
What few concentration skills I possessed months before the election are now shot to smithereens. It occupies nearly every fiber, every rod and cone, every bone and tendon; right down to the marrow of my soul. Thankfully, I am not alone.
Now, with less than 24 hours before our next president is chosen by the people of this fractured nation of Democrats, Republicans, Independents and the starved-for-attention undecided, I’m still on frazzled edge, wondering if that bottle of cheap champagne I’ve got cooling in the fridge will be used to toast the future or drunk into oblivion. (Full disclosure, in case you’re wondering: Obama=toast; McCain=hit the bottle over the head and get it over with.)
Celebration or commiseration, one thing is perfectly clear: Withdrawal from this compulsively watchable political season is going to be hard. I’ve never liked the idea of going cold turkey and I like it less being a life-long vegetarian, but I could no more ease slowly out of this election than I could flap my wings and fly. I’ve come to admit that my political inebriation of Bacchus-like proportion will require more than a mere 12-step program and faith in a higher power.
Which is why, as I find myself in the decidedly red state of Georgia passing the plentiful McCain/Palin signs sticking out of the leaves and lawns, I will summon some much-needed optimism and fortitude, taking one last peek at the polls on CNN’s “Magic Map” that show Barack Obama with a nine-point national advantage to alleviate some of my glandular panic. Because nothing sooths quite like some red state turning blue ointment.
Gone, I hope, will be the images of the Alaskan Jihad, Sarah “you betcha” Palin stumping the stage—at least for another four years. Gone too, Joe the Plumber, and his pandering maverick John “my friends” McCain. I suppose, as any addict will tell you, there will be certain pleasure in remembering the crazy days of living too close to the edge, when puking over a toilet qualifies as fun. Nevertheless, I look forward to the day after tomorrow (today really, when this goes to print) when I can read and watch the onslaught of commentaries about why the GOP bungled their chances to retain the power they always thought was their God-given mandate to have. And for one who felt the hollow haze of misery when Bush was elected for the first and second term, this will provide unimaginable catharsis and even vindication that our political process, nay, our nation as a whole, will not go the way of the Roman Empire. Not yet, anyway.
Just two months ago, my good friend Dug Winningham dropped by on a cross-country trip that had taken him from Los Angeles through the Deep South and into Atlanta. From Texas onward, he’d turned to talk-radio for company and by the time he got to my porch he was certifiably depressed. Of course, it didn’t help that he was just coming from the funeral of his mother, but all that radio time, with its vitriolic hatred of a black man running for president, had exacted a price on his normally sunny constitution. He showed me a photo of some anti-Obama graffiti he’d taken in Texas, an image so hateful it doesn’t belong in any polite or impolite company.
We sat out on the porch with cold beer, a cacophony of cicadas chirping in the moist southern air. Dug told me Obama didn’t have a chance against McCain and Palin. And I couldn’t quite disagree with him, despite being fresh out of California where, besides the weather, life can be more easily lived in a bubble of blithe and happy ignorance. We passed into midnight talking about the election and the state of this country until we caught ourselves sounding like bored and tired pundits. In the morning he left for his home in New York City, and I sank further into electoral hypervigilance and dependence.
But it didn’t alleviate the anxiety and nervousness. I found myself, for the first time ever, donating to a political campaign. And with not a lot of money to give, next I found myself at the Georgia Obama campaign office, making phone calls to voters. All of which, despite the good cause and the urgency of the election, left me feeling more like a telephone salesman and less like I was making any progress for Obama. (As an aside, most people, myself included, don’t pick up the phone from an unknown number anymore.)
I suppose what makes this election especially hard for those of us who are sane and possess a few ounces of common sense is the fact that a dotty, ripened hack, flanked by a bumbling former beauty queen as maverickette, could even have a chance in this election against an overly obvious charismatic leader. Finding blame for this severe disconnect will never be easy, but I do know one thing: When tomorrow I enter the voting booth and pull that blue curtain around myself, I won’t even blink.
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