Dumb but Honest: Election Day
stoners, breadcrumbs, donuts and dopamine
Breakfast
Ten minutes till the bell. Shit! What happened to the time? I abandon my campaign station in the commons, lobster clamping six Lisa Frank-esque “Dumb but Honest” posterboards between my thumb and index fingers and shoving a pack of glue tack into the chest pocket of my uniform shirt. Eyes frantically darting from locker block to cafeteria wall in meager visibility assessment: all prime real estate having been spoken for by those candidates with more tenacious campaign managers.
Someone swishing by behind me claps me on the shoulder “Heyyy, great slogan dude!!!” A member of the stoner dynasty, no doubt. But heyyyy they get a vote, too!
“Yeah, Rosie!!!” yells a letterman’s jacket. Pausing to open the glass doors to the English Department for several skirted peers. Closing out the show with a hearty fist pump.
Stick it to the man, I read between the lines.
My stomach swells with something I now recognize as dopamine. A neurotransmitter known as the “feel-good” chemical. An intoxicating hit I’d spend another 20 years chasing, though arguably through more unglamorous means.
Damn. Is this why people get addicted to running for president? Should I?
The positive feedback cracks a door to a room I haven’t let myself believe in until now. Could this actually work?
It's too soon to tell. But the dread in my throat quells momentarily. My brain stops bitching about how long it takes to roll each gum dot between my sweaty palms until it’s warm enough to leverage the freak show beauty of my insubordinate art show.
The bell rings at 8:05. I shove everything in a locker and head to Theology. Suspended in a cloud of anxiety. Classmates feel compelled to share their opinions. My stomach retains its cinnamon-twisted donut shape. Being high school famous for publicly proclaiming my stupidity crosses my mind as often as the priest makes the sign of the cross in the air in front of his face at mass.
What will they think?
Did you know that’s the number one most commonly asked human question?
What would happen if physicians found a way to lebotomize it from our psyches? How many dreams would be born as a result of this freedom?
Lunch
By 11:45 the cafeteria is swarming with voters lined up behind two ballot boxes straddling both ends of the commons. Meanwhile, I am busy straddling both ends of an existential crisis. It looked something like this:
Is this the worst decision I’ve ever made? Is my reputation ruined? Was mom right?
vs.
Am I making this up or is my vulnerability actually kind of disarming people? Is my dad a genius?
If nothing else, people aren’t going to forget it.
Main Course
At 2:55 a long beep followed by a phlegmy pubescent voice ambers the airwaves. The votes are in.
My butt cheeks brace themselves for impact while the twisted tissues of my stomach simultaneously burst into sickly sweet butterfly particulates. I suppress the urge to puke all over the “Alex loves Gina” carvings on my desk.
Student Council Representatives for the 2001 school year are….
“Billie Idol, John Lennon, David Bowie, Rosie Norman!”
(Yes, my maiden name was Norman. Don’t think I wasn’t tormented by this. “HEY NORM! “ “ LOOK IT’S THE NORMANATOR!!!” So. So sexy. So humbling.)
Bread Pudding
Apart from 4 corner bingo at the Pioneer club when I was 9, I’ve never won anything in my life. The announcement comes as a shock wave of disbelief. Did I hear that right? Am I dreaming?
The short of it is I won. I did the scariest thing I’d ever done. And it worked. I’d called out my insecurities in public, blasted it across the sky in hot pink letters, and people responded. In kind.
The universe nodded at me for the first time. Placed a breadcrumb into my hand. Said, “Be brave. Be honest. Let your humanness shine through. This is your path.”
Now eat this. In memory of me.
THE END
Dear Friend,
Thank you for being here. Your readership means everything to me.
Rosie
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