Yesterday, I voted in my first midterm election since moving to Oklahoma. I consider voting a civic responsibility, but I also believe it comes with certain privileges. One of those is the right to complain about the people running our government. Since I have no intention of surrendering that privilege, I needed to get myself to the polls.

I decided to vote early. Election Day voting takes place at the church where I walk, which would have been convenient, but rain was in the forecast. I didn’t want my commitment to democracy tested by the possibility of getting wet. I’m reasonably confident I wouldn’t melt, but I’ve retired from scientific experiments, too.

Oklahoma offers only four days of early voting, which seemed a little stingy compared to Texas. I came across a Facebook memory from two years ago showing that I’d already voted in Texas by this point. Either Texans need more time to make up their minds, or the state recognizes that voters need an opportunity to escape the political commercials.

Once I’ve voted, I want the commercials to stop. My phone somehow knows when I’ve been thinking about buying something, but my television can’t figure out I’ve already cast my ballot. I shouldn’t have to spend another week listening to politicians tell me how terrible their opponents are. I’ve already made my decision. Go bother somebody who can still do something about it.

Before heading to the polls, I needed to figure out who and what I was voting for. I entered my address into the appropriate website on the dark web. I call it that because the lights were off in my office. The website provided a sample ballot, complete with candidates, judges, and resolutions requiring opinions I hadn’t yet developed.

Party affiliations helped narrow some choices, but judges were another matter. Fortunately, I stumbled across a fellow Oklahoman on Facebook who had done considerably more research than I was interested in doing. He wasn’t even from my part of the state, but since neither of us had local issues on our ballots, his recommendations seemed transferable.

I had found someone willing to do my homework. This was beginning to look like a successful election.

He even recommended voting against one of the candidates from the party I generally support. That gave me the opportunity to demonstrate my independence by voting for someone from the other party. I could now proudly tell people I hadn’t voted a straight ticket. Of course, most of my independent thinking had been borrowed from a guy on Facebook, but I didn’t see any reason to complicate the accomplishment.

I followed his recommendations on the resolutions, too. Reading enough legal language to understand all of them might have discouraged me from voting altogether. I wasn’t willing to risk democracy over excessive homework.

Wednesday’s errands with my daughter took us past the library, where early voting was underway. The line stretched out the door, and I wasn’t about to subject her and the grandkids to an extended civics lesson. I returned Thursday, when the line was considerably shorter. I was fifth, comfortably inside the building, and feeling pretty good about my timing.

The gentleman ahead of me wasn’t having nearly as much fun. He was informed that he needed to complete an additional form, which evidently exceeded his tolerance for government paperwork. He expressed his displeasure and left. If he expected someone to chase him into the parking lot and beg him to reconsider, he was disappointed. The line simply got shorter, and I moved forward. Democracy had survived its first casualty of the morning.

After confirming my identity and sending me through the appropriate tables, the poll workers handed me a paper ballot. One gentleman cheerfully asked the next voter how he could help. I had a smart answer ready in case he asked me. Unfortunately, I got the woman beside him, who simply handed me my ballot and told me to use any available voting booth. My opportunity to announce that I’d come to vote had been wasted.

I settled into a cardboard cubicle and pulled out my cheat sheet. The ballot required filling in boxes rather than the little circles I remembered from standardized tests. These were considerably larger, and I was determined to fill them in properly. Starting at the upper left corner, I carefully colored each box until I reached the lower right. I was treating the ballot like an art project, except nobody was going to hang it on the refrigerator.

Everything was going well until I reached the judges.

Despite having the correct choices clearly marked on my cheat sheet, I filled in the wrong box for one of them. This presented a problem. In my business days, I could correct a contract by crossing something out, making the change, and initialing it. I figured the same principle ought to apply here. Scratch out the wrong box, fill in the right one, add my initials, and move along.

Evidently, election officials aren’t interested in my contract-editing experience.

I approached the woman distributing the coveted “I Voted” stickers and explained my mistake. Rather than accepting my proposed correction, she directed me to another table. I had been sent to the principal’s office.

I expected to write “I will not mess up another ballot” 100 times, but they settled for some additional paperwork and my signature. My original ballot was surrendered, and I was issued a replacement. I had managed to turn a simple voting experience into an administrative event.

Now I was nervous. What if I messed up the second ballot? Was there a limit? Would a third mistake require a phone call to Judy? I didn’t want to find out. I checked my cheat sheet, filled in the boxes, checked them again, and then checked them once more. I was beginning to understand why people develop test anxiety.

Finally satisfied, I fed my ballot into the scanner and watched it disappear. No alarms sounded. Nobody asked me to return to the principal’s office. My vote had been accepted, and I was free to leave.

I even forgot to collect my sticker. After all that work, I had nothing to show for it except the satisfaction of having fulfilled my civic duty. And, of course, the privilege I’d come for in the first place.

I can now complain.

I take that privilege seriously. I don’t expect everyone to agree with my choices, and I certainly don’t agree with every decision made by the people I vote for. But I do believe that if you’re going to spend the next two years telling me how badly our government is being run, you ought to have participated in choosing the people running it.

You don’t have to vote the way I do. You don’t even have to like the choices. I certainly wasn’t thrilled with all of mine. But voting is one of the simplest opportunities we have to influence what happens next. It may not always produce the results we want, but refusing to participate doesn’t improve the odds.

I’ve earned my opportunity to complain, and I intend to use it. Judy might argue that I’ve never required much encouragement in that department, but this time I have documentation. Somewhere in Oklahoma, there’s a scanned ballot proving I showed up, made my choices, and even went through remedial training to get them right.

So, if you want to complain, stand in line. I did. And if you begin a political conversation with, “I don’t believe in voting, but…” please give me a moment to turn down my hearing aids.

I don’t wear hearing aids, but I’m willing to buy some for the occasion.