Who knew voting could be so hazardous? I thought it was all about national pride or whatever. But there were times, folks, where I feared for my life, if not for gasp! My sanity! However, I have lived to tell the tale. You are looking, dear friends, at the blog of a voter.
It all began when Mom made the impromptu decision to get voting out of the way today. She loaded Shelby, NanNan and myself into her van and we drove off. Halfway there, Mom began to lament leaving her camera at home. She wanted to document this most auspicious occasion in her daughters' histories. Psh. I was far too busy worrying about whether they would let me vote without a voter's registration card to feel nostalgic about lost Kodak moments. We'd mailed in my form at least a month ago without a word in reply from our nation's leaders. You'd think they'd be busting their red, white and blue hineys to get voters their cards. Another win for the Gipper!
Anyway, we arrived at the voting place, the church actually, where I used to take ballet lessons. I really wanted to disappear for a bit and see if the old studio was still there, but I had no chance. The parking lot was full, and it was difficult enough to find a parking place. Eventually Mom beat somebody else out of a spot, and we all unloaded and headed toward the door. Little did we know that this simple action would be fraught with peril. I'll refrain from quoting Monty Python on the topic of peril for the moment, although Lord knows I want to.
You see, folks, as we were walking up to the voting office, we found that we were forced to run the gauntlet.
Running the gauntlet, according to wikipedia (dear old friend), is as follows: The condemned soldier was stripped to the waist and had to pass between a double row (hence also known as die Gasse, "the alley") of cudgeling or switching comrades. A subaltern walked in front of him with a blade to prevent him from running. The condemned might sometimes also be dragged through by a rope around the hands or prodded along by a pursuer. Various rules might apply, such as banning edged weapons, requiring the group to keep one foot in place, or allowing the soldier to attempt to protect his head with his hands. The punishment was not necessarily continued until death. If so, he might be finished off when unable to walk. Running the gauntlet was considered far less of a dishonor than a beating (with exposure to ridicule) on the pillory, pranger, or stocks, since one could 'take it like a man' upright and among soldiers.
Not pleasant. At all. For these soldiers weren't armed with whips or sharp sticks or something. Nope, they were armed with faux civility, political pamphlets, and the dreaded Handshake of Doom. They practically through themselves at us, asking us to support this candidate, or that person. We were informed of the goodness of these individuals--their faithful attendance of church, their many children and faithful wives, their utterly sincere intentions to Better Humanity. Hrumph. One of the people started to shake Mom's hand and wouldn't let go. I thought I was going to perform a break that I learned in Self Defense Class in order to free her. I ended up hiding shamelessly behind my grandmother. They wouldn't attack an older lady, right? Right?
Finally we made it inside (our bodies intact, thank goodness, although my desire to perform my civic duty was in utter tatters) and joined the end of a line. It was long, but not totally daunting. You even started to make friends with the other people in the line after a while. There were many discussions going on in a variety of subjects: Iron Man, the U of M basketball team, the iphone, college life, ect. I even flirted mildly with a guy that was wearing a Serenity t-shirt. Hey, it was from a great tv show! He had good taste!
There was a problem with my voting, of course, since I didn't have my voter's registration card. An extraordinarily snippy woman that put me in the mind of Effie started to help me. She was squiffy at first when Mom stayed with me to make sure that I didn't get screwed. Hey, she was the one that mailed my voter's registration. I just know that I filled it out. When the lady told mom that she would really prefer to talk to me, I looked her straight in the eye and said, "Yes, well, since she was the one that actually mailed the registration, she would have the most information." *Angelic smile* I positively hate it when people act like they're treating you like an adult, but they do it in such a roundabout way that it comes across as patronizing. I can't even describe it accurately--they pretend that they're addressing you, when really they just want to feel superior. Again, something that Effie does.
But to get back on target, after I made my sweet little self known, the lady decided to be nice and actually help me rather than attempt to build up her own minuscule sense of self-esteem. We eventually got my voter's status straightened out, I voted, and came home.
Done my job. The rest is up to them.
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