absentee | Psychobabble

I love voting.

It makes me feel all grown up and stuff.

When I went off to college, and even when I lived across the country for grad school, I still stayed registered to vote in my home county because I knew I’d eventually move back to California (and plus I’ve never lived in a swing state, or I would’ve re-registered before you could say “Bain Capital”).

Because of this setup, I voted absentee via the mail. That was cool an’ all, but it wasn’t the experience I was craving. I wanted the anticipation of standing in line at the polling place. I wanted to feel the rush as my name was crossed off a list and I was handed a ballot. I wanted to feel the urge to do something naughty in the privacy of the voting booth – and then feel proud when I resisted it. I wanted to actually physically participate in the action, the ritual of voting rather than just putting a piece of paper in the mail like I was sending off a bill.

And, let’s face it, I wanted that damn sticker. I wanted the bragging rights.

Needless to say, when I found my Big Girl Job and moved permanently back to Norcal, I registered in my new county and got to start voting in person on election day, and boy it was everything I had hoped for and more.

My local polling place turned out to be the fire station that is down the street from my apartment. Can you believe my luck?! Few things are sexier than voting, and one of those things is a firefighter drinking a glass of milk or washing a fire truck (or both). Put those things together, and you have one civicly responsible, hot-and-bothered pair of Lyssapants.