After endlessly calling around to find out where I am registered to vote, I find three potential polling places near the last three apartments I lived in during the past three years. I systematically head to the polls near my last apartment since I don’t recall re-registering my new address. It worked. I was listed in the registry but alas I was registered as an American Independent so I could only vote for American Independent candidates in the presidential primaries. Shitballs. Really? When did this happen? I gave the volunteer pollsters a hard time because I had just driven an hour just so I could cast my vote for Barack Obama or Hillary Clinton. I was still undecided at press time. I think I would have flipped a coin. For the record, I had picked AI in high school because I thought this meant non-partisan. Three candidates listed on the AI ticket and the first one is named Mad Max. Dammit. I’m pissed off that my vote doesn’t really get to count. So, I am calling the county registrar’s office tomorrow to change my party affiliation to non-partisan.
There was this couple who stood in front of me in line. They were registered non-partisan. I found it admiringly cute that they came to vote together. And it made me feel so incredibly, uncharacteristically lonely and all I wanted at that moment in time was to have someone to vote with. Ridiculous, I know. I felt those empty pangs of loneliness hollow out my stomach and creep up my spine. And all I craved with every ounce of my soul was to have a someone. Someone to go to the polls with. What was I doing wrong? Why was everyone one around me in happy, successful relationships and all I can find are boys who are emotionally unavailable with deep-seated, commitment phobias. Do I attract the non-committal types? What is it about me that doesn’t make me committable? I can be committable.
But, these moments are fleeting. I have these monologues with myself in the sanctity of my car. I pine. I yearn. I even shed a small tear. But, I’m not the pitying type. Not even for myself. I chastise myself for having a moment of weakness. And re-direct my energy.
All I can think of now is a stack of fluffy, Belgian waffles smothered in syrup and topped with strawberries and whipped cream. I make a mental list of ingredients I need…Belgian waffle mix, eggs, vegetable oil, vanilla extract (special ingredient), syrup, strawberries and whipped cream. Check, check, check. Wait. I don’t have a Belgian waffle iron. Dammit. So, I make a stop at Target and pick up a Belgian waffle iron. They only have one model. It’s a Belgian waffle iron for one.
Extra whipped cream, please.