National Theatre

I know this is an unpopular opinion, but I am kind of living for the drama.

I am waking up without my phone, spending at least an hour doing something productive or just putzing around while I listen to the tense silence of my willful ignorance. (You can tell how anxious I am by how meticulously organized my apartment is.) After my mental summer camp, I set the stage with a cup of coffee by my computer, opening the front page of The New York Times in quiet anticipation. Still nothing, still nothing.

Maybe it's the lack of live performance in these past many months that has left me hungry for suspense — not the kind that hurts people, but the kind that feeds the ego. In truth, we have plenty of time. But we want to know now, and the tension of not knowing has created a national theatre in which our insatiable desire for certainty can perform her one-woman show.

I wanted there to be a decisive blue wave so I could fall asleep three nights ago full of some optimism and a lot of pinot grigio. But as this year has shown us, disappointment and patience are the names of the game. So I'm going to get my popcorn. And I hope that when the fat lady sings, she'll be singing the national anthem, for a country with a new president.