Shannon ReedCAUTION: Those of you with weak constitutions, or easily-upset stomachs, or who are allergic to artificial sweetners, should avoid reading the following article.
All over the country on Tuesday, women began weeping at the polls. I know. I was one of them.
At 6:15, the very first voter in my precinct, I teared up behind the thick plastic curtains.
Throughout the day, I heard from my women friends and co-workers a story similar to what I had already experienced: . . . Looking at the choices, we began, by rote, to reach up toward the candidate we liked the most, or respected most deeply, or felt was the most competent, or had settled on as the lesser of two evils.
And then, our hands stretched out, we froze. We realized, in a moment of quiet joy – we could vote for a woman.
Someone like us. A woman as equally derided as loved, yes. A woman full of flaws and virtues, yes. "A woman who wants absolute power over the teeming peasant masses, and deserves it because she's so much smarter than they are."
A woman who, like so many of her generation, seems to have worked harder than any man to arrive where she is. A woman who, as we would see in the news later, made a questionable wardrobe choice that day.
Tonight, on a very special What Not To Wear: "Really, Hills! Pink over navy blue; what were you thinking? And while you're at it, tell Chelsea that the black-leggings-and-her-man's-Van-Heusen look went out with Kurt Cobain. Wake up, girlfriend, it's the 21st century!"
A woman who seems to believe that we can do better, for ourselves and for each other. An imperfect woman, just like us. A woman.
"As I brought the stylus down onto the punched card with authority--no hanging chads for me!--I broke into song. I wsa a little off-key, and the precinct workers looked at me like I was crazy, but I didn't care. I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME VOTE! NOW I CAN'T HELP BUT EMOTE! . . . I AM STRONG! I AM INVINCIBLE! I AM FOR HILLAREEEEE!"