I voted on Tuesday.
Woke up.
Had my coffee.
Threw on my sweats and headed down to my condo building’s fourth floor.
A convenient polling place.
It was easy.
I was early.
A funny thing happened on my way to the voting booth: As local senior citizen volunteers located my name and verified my signature, I started to cry.
How privileged am I, with this right to vote?
How many people, in how many places, aren’t allowed to consider their options, weigh in on their preferences, communicate their expectations?
A comfortable, cozy jaunt on an elevator toward an astounding privilege.
I voted on Tuesday: for myself, for the women of Saudi Arabia, for the citizens of China, for the people of North Korea.
If I am not mindful of another gift given to me this year, let me remember that I voted Tuesday morning.
