Paybacks

　
Yesterday was the deadline for potential candidates to file paperwork with the Secretary of State in order to be eligible to run for political office in Kentucky’s 2010 primary elections. Why does this concern me, you ask?

Well, because like an elephant, I never forget and in my opinion, political campaigns boil down to popularity contests, plain and simple. And everybody who took Poly-Sci 101 knows that all politics is local. Now, I’m middle-aged by anyone’s standards and most of the time I act like the grown up I “officially” am. But, deep down, in the darkest recesses of my heart, I am still the little kid who could never do a cartwheel and still wince at the thought of my old grade-school nickname, “Chuckwagon.”

It started about twenty years ago. Several people who were downright mean to me “back in the day” announced that they were running for political office. Now, I am a registered, sometimes rabid, life-long straight party line type of person, but I cannot bring myself to press those little levers in the voting booth with their names next to them, even when their beliefs match up with mine. There comes a point when even the most socially-conscious among us has to draw the line. Truth is, I’d rather vote for Catwoman or Lex Luther.

Why would I want to do something nice like blow my ballot on someone who stole my boyfriend back in 3rd grade or badmouthed my performance in a junior high play? By golly, that guy didn’t ask me to the junior prom so I’ll show him!

I haven’t spoken to these people in years, but I’m better at nursing a grudge than that whacko Octopulet Mom is with her babies. If they were mean then, why would they be nice now?

My ever-reasonable husband, the professor, rolled his eyes when I told him this and asked, “Don’t you think that people are capable of changing? Are you the same person you were when you were a child?”

Of course, I’m not, but then again, that’s me and I’m perfect, I secretly think; my inner child holding her breath until she turns blue.

So, every time an election looms, just like clockwork my former nemesis’ ring my doorbell, hawking votes. And I hide just like I do when the missionaries come to call. I’d get away with it, but our dog gets so excited when somebody is standing on the porch he practically tears the curtains down, revealing me crouched in a fetal position behind the recliner.

I’m no pundit, but here’s my strategy for politicians who need to scare up a few extra votes:

Go back through your old high school annuals, camp photos, etc. and pick out the people you didn’t have time for, didn’t like or even looked at cross-eyed. Find them and try to convince them that you actually did grow up to be a decent human being.

Otherwise, the next time you go out ringing doorbells looking for votes, you never know who’ll be laughing when they peek out their windows and see that you stepped in a pile of doggie-doo on the way off of their property.

But, God help me if someday I’m ever on death row, wrongly accused and need a pardon from the Governor. The telephone in the death chamber will never ring.

Don’t you just hate paybacks?

When she's not busy trying to convince people that "the more you complain the longer God lets you live," Marsie Hall Newbold works as a publicist getting positive press for her clients. She can be reached at: marsolete@insightbb.com