I voted for the first time in 1992, when I was 24. It embarrasses me that I blew six years of voting, six years of complaining, but I have made up for it with a vengeance. For the last 23 1/2 years, my precinct has been in a church six blocks away, and I have walked dogs, children, and sometimes both, with me to vote. For the last 23 1/2 years, I have voted almost every time that I could vote. It is that important to me.

For the first time ever, I voted early. Early voting took me from a 15 minute walk in my neighborhood to a 15 minute drive to a county building five miles away, where I had to hunt for a parking space. I stood in line for over an hour, with hundreds of people, all of us wilting in the 85 degree November heat. All of us waiting to vote.

I did not know what to expect in this rancorous election — an affair populated by some people rabidly endorsing one candidate, some people rabidly endorsing another, some people voting against a particular candidate, others voting against the other candidate, and a seemingly large middle wondering about how the country ended up with this particular choice. I have watched the debates. I have read the news. I have been gripped with anxiety. I have lost sleep. I have asked people not to discuss the election me, and I have left gatherings where politics have been discussed. (And by “left gatherings,” I genuinely mean that I have gotten up and I have walked out.) I have wondered if I have an election-induced ulcer.

I had a mammogram this morning, and since my appointment was near the polling station, I decided that it would be a good morning to vote. Psychologically I was prepared, for I had spent a number of uncomfortable minutes exposed, having private areas smashed by a machine, all while a technician reminded me not to breathe and I reminded myself that it was all to the good. The discomfort, the lack of air, the exposure, the waiting, the nagging fear of a terrible result: It all seemed like a perfect lead-in to voting.

And sartorially I was prepared, for I had walked out of my closet looking like a Yankee Doodle Dandy, for I wore blue shoes, red pants, a white shirt, a blue cardigan, a red, white, and blue scarf and bracelets, red lipstick, and a red purse. If that did not scream “committed electorate!,” I am not certain what would. (If I had had a pony, it would have been perfect, but I had to settle for a red car.)

So I parked, and got in line, and I looked around, and I pulled out my knitting. I tried to guess how everyone was voting, but it was impossible. I worried that there would be a lot of tension, but that was unnecessary. I found myself instead surrounded by my fellow Americans, a mixed lot of different colors and sizes and genders and ages and jobs, speaking different languages and English with different accents, only one of whom was dressed entirely in red, white, and blue, but all of whom wanted one thing: to be heard. To be counted.

The 68 year-old woman in front of me had an itchy Google finger, and she told me that of 210 million Americans of voting age, 150 million were registered to vote. So far 30 million registered voters had voted early. As we shuffled through the line, none of us complaining in the heat, all of us wanting to vote and leave, I came to the line near the door where disabled and older Americans waited. There was a woman there holding the arm of another woman. The first woman had white hair and brown eyes and a cream colored sweater and green pants and bright pink tennis shoes and impeccable posture.

I am not sure exactly how it came up, but the woman told someone that she was 100 years old. And all I could think of was this: That woman was born before women had the right to vote. The 19th Amendment was passed in her lifetime. And here I was in line, a woman about to vote and thinking very little of the right to do so, a woman who could vote for a woman for president if she so desired.

It had been an emotional day for me. This realization did not help.

And I finally got in, and the poll worker told me that I looked very nice indeed, and the dour independent poll monitor (or so his orange tag said) grunted “very patriotic,” and I snaked through another line and finally I had a voting card. I put it in the machine. I marked my choices. I checked them three times. And I cast my vote.

Perhaps that is the single beauty of this rancorous election, this unsettling time: People are engaged. Voters are turning out. My 17 year-old daughter’s friends are disappointed that they cannot cast a ballot. I had to hunt for a parking space. I had to wait over an hour to vote. With hundreds of strangers, all holding their breath, all uncomfortable, all waiting for and possibly dreading the result, some of whom had to wait for constitutional amendments allowing them to vote, I voted. It was the best I had felt in this entire miserable season. It was a bright spot: I made my choice, and I had no control over what happened next. I had done my part. I could do no more.

ALC