We voters also need campaign strategies

by Beth Teitell
Tuesday, November 5, 2002

 

I am not an undecided voter, but I like to play one this time of year. Why? Well, frankly, I need the attention.

Pathetic? Sure. But a decided's got to do what a decided's got to do. So when pollsters call, I coo ``unsure'' in answer to every question (``Are you a man or a woman?'' ``Unsure.'') in hopes that my up-for-grabbedness will be passed on to Mitt and Shannon, and I'll be wooed.

What would it take to win my vote? Well, something in a small box would be nice, but if that's not appropriate, I'll settle for some very targeted campaign promises, such as:

  • ``Mitt will fight for a state-funded pool to pay for pilates classes for those whose health clubs don't offer them,'' or ``Mitt understands the needs of ladies, er, working women, and will supply each girl, er, woman, with a year's worth of Calvin Klein control top, sheer-to-waist, nude panty hose.''

    ``A vote for Shannon means a visitor parking spot in the North End on the evening of Sat., Nov. 23,'' or ``Governor Shannon will force companies that do business in Massachusetts, like Starbucks and Peets, to lower their latte prices.''

    As someone pretending to be undecided, here's what I don't understand about the real undecideds (unless of course there are no real undecideds and they're all just pretending):

    What could they possibly hope to learn today, after all the months of rhetoric, that would swing them one way or the other? A new definition of the word ``unbecoming'' perhaps? Late-breaking details about the Romneys' high school prom?

    Those of us who study the undecided mind know that people act in the voting booth very much the way they do in other high-pressure situations in which an irrevocable decision needs to be made, such as a surgeon's office, or a dressing room at Jasmine Sola, the clothing store chain with a merchandise-credit-only return policy.

    Here's how one of my undecided friends explained her mind-set: ``You just wait until you are literally out of time and pull the lever and hope for the best,'' she said.

    ``It's like when you go out to dinner,'' she continued, ``and you study the menu but you don't know what you want, and then the waitress comes over to take your order, and you say, `Start with her,' pointing to your friend, and while everyone gives their order your mind races - ``the hand-filled pumpkin ravioli sounds good but really fattening, but I always get salmon'' - and then when the waitress gets to you again, and there's no more stalling, you just blurt something out.''

    Political scientists know that the so-called ``Grilled Salmon'' voters are similar to the ``Sharper Image'' voters who enter the store - and the booth - hoping for divine inspiration.

    ``Your eyes frantically dart from the nose-hair trimmer to the executive shower radio to the travel clock and you're just hoping you'll see something that speaks to you,'' one undecided (voter and shopper) explained.

    Something that speaks to you? Uh-oh. Now that I think about it, personal attention is the last thing I want from a politician.

    Mitt, Shannon, if you're reading this: I was just kidding! I've already made up my mind.