Ah, touché, touché Mr. Senators

There are many things I’ve learned about adulthood.

1. The taxes and bills, are, quite simply, necessary tradeoffs for staying up as late as you want and wearing high heels.
2. Whether or not it’s a good idea, you can eat donuts for dinner, if it suits your fancy.
3. As much as they despise it, you can dance with your cats when you can’t sleep and there’s simply a song that moves you.
4. Above all, of the most consequential things I’ve learned about adulthood - the truth lies somewhere in between just about every extreme my parents taught me.

For the hippies that they were, my parents, they were very black and white people. Their paradigm binoculars saw very little color. I recall upon a trip to the mechanic.

“Rebecca you don’t have to bring your car in every week like your mother, but more than once every 5 years for an oil change would be nice.” (Insert adorable Israeli accent where applicable).

My mother sees her doctor every week, in sickness and in health. I don’t believe my father has been to one in his entire adult life.

There’s very little moderation, very little balance, to my parents life and consequently, to their marriage.

It’s little surprise, they would create such a pact with one another.

I recall my first election as a newly minted adult. This guy in one of my classes asked me in the hallway which candidate I would vote for. I was a political science major, and in hindsight, given how much I now know, it wasn’t a completely crazy, completely unreasonable question. But I was shocked, I was appalled, and I most certainly was not going to answer that question. Ho hum. He was confused how he had offended me, and I didn’t see where he got off. I asked a panel of experts.

I asked my friends.

"Friends, where does this guy, and his failed pick up lines, get off asking me who I'm voting for." Ho Hum.

(Start tender moment music)
“Rebecca. Sweetheart. Love of our life. Politics, it’s one of those subjects, maybe you don’t bring up in job interviews and with your mother in law, but it doesn’t have to be a secret. Who told you that?”

I would investigate.

I eventually came to learn, my parents had a massive early marital feud over politics. It was the age of communism and Ronald Regan, and after a heated spat, they agreed to not discuss it anymore. One would reason that particular topic, for the rest of the night, perhaps until the election was over. But no, they decided, they would never speak of politics again. Case closed. End of story. They would no longer share who they would vote for. They wouldn’t discuss “the issues.”

Off limits like a ham on the Sabbath.

My parents voted often, but never together, and never did they share. They subsequently passed down to my sister and I a lesson, without the relevant marital spat background, you don't ever discuss your political views. Ever.

EVER.

Like a courtroom gavel ringing through chambers. Ever.

It was such a relief, I must reveal, to learn this was just another 'weird thing your parents do.' There are just so many.

This will now be presidential election number three I’ve been of voting age. My parents weren’t completely wrong, people get very worked up in pursuit of the little sticker at the end of the proverbial political rainbow. Up until this point, I believe I thought in order to hold my ground among the intense emotional appeal and political spin, I needed to decide early who would be “my guy” and in this year, “my gal.”

"This year, I'm just waiting it out. I'm not going to make a decision yet. I just want to read a lot, and watch the conventions, hear the debates, doing my own investigating, appreciate it. I really just, I mean, I don't know how to explain it, I..."

"You want to make your mind up for yourself?"

"YES."

"How novel."

My friends really are very gifted people.

My search for more political information has led abound, but with frequent ice cream breaks.

High heels or flats. Gucci or Pucci. Tote or clutch. Life is about choices. Decisions. Issues. But never any more so than picking a presidential election, and a lovely scooping of ice cream. Just never did I think those worlds would collide.

It would all unwind at a trip to Baskin Robbins.

Baskin Robbins has two special new ice cream flavors for the election, I see through the glass plating. "The Flavor of Change," the democratic pick, loaded with peanut brittle and toffee. An equally interesting one for the republican pick. Both had desirable features. Both undesirable. I asked for a sample of both. But was I ready to make a choice? Was I ready to settle? Was I ready to pick? No, No. No I was not. It was too much. What would one say about me. What about the other. I'm not ready to decide.

I picked chocolate peanut butter, because it said nothing more about me than I like chocolate and I like peanut butter, and they taste really quite delicious together in an ice cream on top of a sugar cone. I licked that ice cream quickly, as to not let it melt down that cone on the warm fleeting end of summer day. And I thought about the choice I get to make. The awesome ability to make that choice. About the so many people who are excited and passionate about taking care of other people via government in one fashion or another. Whether it be a well-spoke black man to be the first nominated candidate, or a weathered one with a female running mate.

And I thought only as I tasted my last taste of chocolatey peanut butter, ah, touche', touche' Mr. Senators.