That flakey girl standing in line outside the ladies room at my favorite Asian-fusion restaurant last night. There she was, giggling and flipping her over-processed, bleached-blonde hair whilst babbling away to anyone who would listen about nonsensical pop-culture garbage. Hot pink platform stilettos complimented her magenta mini-dress, finished with a silver clutch, a deep spray-on tan, thousands in plastic surgery, and artwork on her acrylics. I thought, She’s a voter.
I wasn’t completely sure what she was saying because I believe she was speaking Kardashian. Or maybe it was Jersey Shore. Or it could have been that common Boca language known to me as the “I-only-date-rich-geriatric-men” dialect of American English. And there I stood, waiting for my turn for the one bathroom in the entire joint, my blood pressure boiling,Her vote is worth the same as mine at the polls.
Call me a poli-snob. Call me intolerant. Call me an elitist, even. But never call me an uninformed voter. I became more and more certain, as that girl droned on about her date with Daddy, that she couldn’t tell the difference between Congress and compost (albeit lately I can’t, either). I imagined that she votes based on neckties or, worse yet, affordable healthcare.
Once I made it into the loo, I washed my hands three times with more than usual rigor (I like clean hands), getting more annoyed with each second. Through the glass I heard her say something that sounded like Kanye and spun on my heel to exit and pushed open the door with unnecessary force, silently wishing that it would accidentally on purpose cause her to topple off her stilts. My imagination took over. I fantasized her fall would cause her to hit her head. A miraculous injury, really. I imagined that suddenly she awakened from her coma days later with both common sense and a desire to go back to her real hair color. To date men her own age. To watch CSPAN.
But it wasn’t to be. I walked out, and there she stood, unmolested and still chatting away, smiling and unaffected by my ire. I was upset and she was ignorantly blissful. I stalked back to my table and vented about this unsuspecting idiot to my friends. I was frustrated. Always compassionate, my friends listened to my diatribe. I said that we should force people that want to vote to take a test, like a driving test, before they can vote, so that they can prove they know the difference between the House and the Senate. I wasn’t just angry….I had a basic outline of a solution to protect the weight of my vote against her’s.
With a reassuring smile, they said, “Oh, she doesn’t vote.” It hadn’t occurred to me, but maybe they were right. My mood lightened, and I thanked them for being so kind. I thanked the server for my gin and tonic, lit a cigarette, sat back, and made a silent wish that people like her never made it past the mall on the way to the polls.
I still have my hopes and dreams, at least.