I voted on Tuesday, which I have done in every primary since 1974, and I want you to know that it used to take me eight minutes. Eight. I’d walk into the polling place at Armour Square, nod at Dolores behind the table — God rest her soul — fill in my circles, feed the paper into the machine, and be back in my car before the engine had time to cool down. That was voting. That was the deal.

Tuesday it took me forty-five minutes. Forty-five. And I’m not talking about a line. There was no line. I was the only person in the room besides two poll workers, a judge who was doing a crossword, and a woman who I believe was there by accident. The forty-five minutes was because the ballot was the length of a CVS receipt. I had to make decisions about positions I didn’t know existed. I had to flip the thing over. There was a second page. In 1974 the ballot fit on a napkin. Now it’s a dissertation.

Let me tell you what I knew going in: I knew who I wanted for governor. I knew who I wanted for Senate. That’s two circles. In and out. But no — I also had to weigh in on the Metropolitan Water Reclamation District, which, fine, I’ve been hearing about the Water Reclamation District my whole life and I still couldn’t tell you what they reclaim or where they put it afterward. I had to pick a Cook County Assessor, which I did, and I had to pick judges, which I did by the only method available to a reasonable person: I went down the list and voted for anyone whose name I recognized from a yard sign.

The Senate race, at least, was clear enough. Durbin’s retiring after approximately nine hundred years, and the field to replace him was what the papers are calling “crowded” and what I would call “a mess.” Fifteen people wanted Jan Schakowsky’s congressional seat. Fifteen! I’ve been to smaller family reunions. At some point you have to ask yourself whether we’ve confused democracy with an open mic night.

And then you come home and you turn on the television and they’re already talking about November. It’s March. The trees don’t have leaves yet. I haven’t put my storm windows away. But every channel’s got a graphic that says “ROAD TO NOVEMBER” like it’s a movie sequel nobody asked for. Back when I started voting, election night was one night. You watched the returns, someone won, someone lost, you went to bed. Now it’s a twelve-month content cycle and I’m supposed to have opinions about tracking polls in July.

Here’s what I’ll say about the actual results: Stratton won the Democratic Senate primary, and good for her. Bailey’s back on the Republican side for governor, and I have no further comment on that because my doctor told me to watch my blood pressure. Fritz Kaegi lost the assessor race, which means I have to learn a new name, which at my age is an imposition. The system worked. People voted. The republic endures. I just wish it didn’t take a forty-five-minute reading comprehension exam to participate.

My neighbor Carl, who is sixty-eight and considers himself a political independent, told me Wednesday morning that he “did extensive research” on every race before voting. I asked him who won the 7th Congressional District. He said, “I’ll have to check.” This is the state of the informed electorate. We’re all doing research. Nobody knows anything. But we’ve all got opinions, and God help us, we’ve got a ballot long enough to write them all down.

I’ll be at Schaller’s if anyone needs me. The coffee’s weak and the conversation’s worse, but at least nobody asks me to evaluate candidates for the Metropolitan Water Reclamation District. If the republic needs me again in November, it knows where to find me. I’ll bring a lunch.