I remember my first time.

I was infatuated. I was excited. I was nervous. In the end, it hurt a lot more than I expected.

The second time was far better, in that “I know I’m doing it right this time” sort of way. I really liked this guy, and I knew that he wouldn’t betray me.

After the third time, I learned he was a cheater.

And while this bothers some women, oddly, it didn’t bother me. I could live with what others could not.

Time passed and by my fourth, there was an undercurrent of resentment and anger and I clearly felt I was being punished by and for another’s bad choices.

It shouldn’t be this way, I thought. This isn’t the kind of relationship I want to have. I could see that others were in better places—I saw how other couples were happy and how they seemed to groove with the big picture. But my partner and I were miserable. Time passed, and things went from bad to worse.

When you’re in a bad relationship, people have a tendency to think, “If I could just stick it out. If I could just gut through this, it’ll change. It WILL change.” But as my fifth came along, things went from sticking-fingers-in-my-ears-ignore-it bad, to screaming-until-my-eyes-bleed worse.

It was painful.
The anger was corrosive.
The situation felt abusive.

And I was done. I was moving out, moving on, moving away.

That’s when I found the right one for me. It was completely unconventional and I knew that some of my friends would have a hard time supporting my choice. “TRACI,” they said, “you’re a WOMAN.” And I would reply, “When you know, you know.” And when I heard him speak, I knew he was the one.

And yesterday, years after my disappointment in Dukakis, my adoration and frustration with Clinton, my sadness in feeling robbed of Gore and my anger over debasement by Bush, after years of frustration and anger and hope—yes, through it all, crazy, unadulterated delicious hope—most of America agreed and anointed Barack Obama as the one, too.