We are nearing the end of the silly season and my stomach seems suspended on a rubber band. There are the backflips at every drumroll of BREAKING NEWS! There’s the low level of butterflies as I pull up the morning newspaper. About now, my instincts tell me to climb under a rock, but I’m quite sure I’ll bang my head on the ceiling of my cave fifty times a day checking my phone for campaign updates. Is that the definition of a political animal?
I will surely hold myself responsible if my candidate loses and I did nothing but whine. That’s the thing about politics. Its success sits both on your shoulders and completely out of your control. And it’s the lack of control that causes this persistent nag of nausea. You cringe with every gaffe by your candidate and revel in the mistakes of the other. You’re quite certain you have the winning campaign strategy, or ad, or tagline, but there’s no one, really, to hear you when you explain it to the television.
And so, six weeks out, I am registering voters.