Jilted by Election Day

There's the sound of silence in our house. Well, except for the baby and the five-year-old and the occasional hairdryer (when I really want big hair).

What I mean is, my phone's not ringing like it used to, and the doorbell hasn't sounded once since Monday.

I'm feeling jilted.

Only a few days ago, I had a steady stream of suitors who wrote letters to me and called (some of them a couple of times a day) and came to see me. They wanted to know my deepest thoughts and my hopes for my future, and what's more, they were going to make my dreams come true. Problems? Hey, they were going to solve them all. For some reason, Meatloaf's "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" came to mind.

But there were so many, and only one of me. And so, as it happens occasionally in Kentucky (according to the oath for political office, anyway) it came down to a duel:
Election Day.

I went to the polling place and stood in line. I looked at the names of the people who so desperately wanted me to commit to them, and I agonized. The mayor loved me so dearly, but his opponent seemed to understand me. What to do, what to do?

I stood over the new electronic voting machine (which no one else wanted to use; I discovered why when, by the time I finished carefully scrolling and clicking buttons and waiting for pages to load, the crowd behind me had become a few lingering souls.)
I took a deep breath and made my choices. It was tough; one fellow who came to see me three times and called a couple of times a week got left in the cold. He was just too needy.

So, now that Election Day is over, the phone isn't ringing. No one has been to see me. The silence is starting to feel a bit, well, conspicuous. I'm beginning to think I've been jilted.

Don't you care about me any more? Am I not in your every thought as you professed before--that everything you did was for my benefit? It's not that I want you to call every day--I was beginning to feel a little smothered, to be honest--but this total silence is, well, deafening.

And to think you said you loved me. *Sniff*

So I guess in a few months you'll take your oath (and promise not to duel--for real) and go about your life, occasionally stopping to remember me. And then the time will come that you will need me again, and you will call and write and come visit.

Hmph. Maybe by then I'll be Canadian.