Don't Hate Them Because They're Undecided

Leigh Anne Jasheway-Bryant

I worry about the Undecideds. Sure, they’re all the rage now, what with the media swarming around them like flies around a day-old pastrami sandwich, but what’s going to become of them once the election is, uh, decided?

For a while I have to admit I was a little jealous of the Uns. Had I known that all it would take to get my fifteen minutes of fame was the inability to make up my mind, that’s a path I would have chosen for myself months ago. Or would I? See, there’s the rub. If I were truly undecided, could I make any life choices? Paper, plastic? Coffee, tea? Subprime mortgage, financial solvency?

But now I realize that aspiring to be Joe the Plumber or Sandy the Dog Groomer is as pointless as aspiring to be one of Brad and Angelina’s newly adopted children at the ripe age of fifty-something. There isn’t a question I’ve faced in the past five decades that I didn’t want to decide as quickly as possible. Sometimes this requires enough research to make sure I understand the issue – like whether washing dishes by hand or in the dishwasher will cause the polar bears to go extinct more slowly. Other times, however, I’m not above making snap judgments – like the first time Sarah Palin winked at me on television. Snap, that relationship was SO over.

Being an Undecided may be all glitz and glamour now, what with the catering trucks and make-up crew at their beck and call, but in two weeks, these people will have to go back to their everyday lives, just like the rest of us. Only they’ll be the ones standing in line at the ATM for thirty minutes trying to decide if they want $40 or $60 cash back. They’re the ones you’ll see looking lost in thought at the produce section of the grocery store, overwhelmed by the choice between Golden Delicious, Red Delicious, MacIntosh, Braeburn, Gala, Gravenstein, Rome Beauty, and Fuji apples. Don’t even get them started on pears or lettuce. Meanwhile, their children will wander the aisles, snacking on Count Chocula, and looking for someone more decisive to go home with. Someone who knows when to pull into the line of oncoming traffic and when to sit and wait – without a sign from god. The Uns will lie awake at night because of their inability to choose between a Select Comfort or a Temperpedic mattress. Instead, they’ll toss and turn on the 23-year old box spring Aunt Betty had until she passed away nine years ago.

So let them have their time in the limelight. It’ll all be over soon. Katie Couric and Charlie Gibson will pack up and go back to their desks, leaving the Uns untethered, like red and blue balloons that have come untied and now float aimlessly until they run into a pine tree or a cell phone tower. And in the post-election world, while the rest of us walk up to the cashier and order our cola with no ice and choose not to Supersize our fries, the Uns will stare unfocused at the menu and smile sadly at the good old days when their lack of resolve meant something.

By Leigh Anne Jasheway-Bryant Oct. 20, 2008