I don’t know about you but I had a very full day this past Tuesday. And the high point was not the 105 minutes that I stood in line outside the polls waiting for my turn to spend 35 seconds in the voting booth. It sort of reminded me of having an EKG done. But that’s a different story.

My Election Day activities actually began Monday evening when a knock came upon my door. About the only people who knock on my door are relatives and the UPS driver. I knew it wasn’t UPS because when he comes a-knockin’ I’ll hear the truck rumbling outside my window then the THUD of the package and the single rap that follows. And it wasn’t a relative because any of them won’t wait to be received but will knock and then enter on their own. Since this was a “knock, knock” without an accompanying THUD or a subsequent “Hello!” it meant I was going to have to climb out of the recliner where I had just settled in with a much read 38 year old Lawrence Sanders novel.

Upon making my way across the room and opening the door I saw there the rather confused looking yet still earnest looking young man who asked if he might speak to Rosemary. I was tempted to fetch him my terra cotta bound woody herb but even with just those few moments to rush to judgement I decided he wouldn’t get it. So I said, “I’m sorry, there is no Rosemary here,” resisting the temptation to slam the door shut as I returned to Mr. Todd’s ongoing investigation.

Tuesday morning I was up early, showered, shaved, breakfasted on eggs, sausage, muffin, juice and coffee, and set off to do my patriotic duty. The large breakfast was because I figured it was going to be a bit of a wait so I wanted to be properly fortified; the shower and shave was because you never know who you might meet wherever crowds gather. I had gotten as far as the outside of my front door when I was met with my first head-scratcher. A note. A sticky note. A sticky note stuck to the outside of my front door that read, “Rosemary, Stopped by to remind you to get out and vote!” I was certain the young chap meant to conclude with “XOXO” but ran out of crayon.

With those thoughts pushed deep into the darkest corner of my mind I drove the few miles down the road to where two of my municipality’s 12 districts share a building. The building’s south entrance, where residents of District 7 go to vote, had about 12 people waiting visible through the glass doors. I could tell because I saw them after I found the end of the line of District 9 voters stretching from the building’s north entrance, across a portico, though a tree-lined courtyard with some tenaciously holding onto quite a few leaves (trees, not voters), and along the overflowing parking lot. And there I joined the mini-throng where people wondered out loud how far they would have to move in order to get to vote with District 7.

To make a long story short I should have stopped about 350 words ago. But since I’ve gotten you to read this far, let me continue.

While there in line I got to hear how to mark fabric for cutting out a pattern when you have no tailor’s chalk, the shortcomings of Candy Crush versus Bejeweled, why 12 year olds can’t vote, that yes this is the same polling place for District 9 as it has been for at least 12 years, why if banks can take your money at any branch you can’t go to vote at any poll, and who are all these other people (that one by the obviously clueless but much too old looking to be a first time voter upon seeing the complete sample ballot indicating all of the candidates in all of the day’s races at the building entrance).

From there it was only another 15 minutes or so until I was through the rest of the line and being ushered to a machine where I was left to make my selections. In all of the day’s races. I was on my way to the exit doors when a poll worker stopped me and said he had run out of “I VOTED!” stickers but if I’d wait he would only be a few minutes while he went to get more from his supply across the room. “No thank you,” I told him. “If I really need to prove I voted I’m sure my new nervous twitch due to the muscle memory of trying to fight the urge not to push the “Cast Your Vote” button will convince just about anybody that I did what I had to do to get my free cup of coffee.”

And then I went home and had some coffee. With just a wee bit of bourbon to sweeten the brew!

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?