Polling Station

This morning I voted for the third year in a row at the Jewish senior center on the end of my block. As usual, the place was a confusing madhouse of directional signs and vigorously waving old ladies. They get quite anxious if you slow the process or walk aimlessly once you get your booth assignment.

"This way! This way! There are people behind you!"

I love the old ladies that work my polling station. Half of them are timid, flustered little birds who seem ready to collapse from nervousness. The other half are loud-mouthed, brazen, old biddies with whiskey-soaked voices who probably used to be drill sargents. Those are the ones I love the most. One of them saw me hesitate at the entrance.

"Sweetheart, don't block da doe-ah," she barked. She was wearing a rhinestone American flag pin and about two feet of shellacked platinum hair. She took my elbow and guided/pulled me to the proper booth. Sixty seconds later I was almost out the door when she spotted another hestitant voter, wavering, trying to figure out where to turn.

"Sweetheart, don't block da doe-ah!"

There aren't many old men among the volunteers at the senior center where I vote. I suppose the old ladies have outlived most of them. Be nice to your polling station volunteers today. And thank them.