Yesterday I woke up and did what I do nearly every morning of my life, even if I’m sick, hungover, hosting company, on a deadline, racing to catch a plane, or reeling from a spectacularly brutal election night: I added a splash of coffee to my perfectly frothed mug of half-and-half, put on my headphones and my leopard tennis shoes (but actually), and went for a walk.
I didn’t make it to the end of my street before I started crying. For reference, I am not a crier. I mean, habitually. When people and pets I love pass away, you’ll absolutely find me in a slobbery puddle. Whitney Houston belting out “The Star-Spangled Banner” or a soldier returning from service and being tackled by his dog in the airport will turn on the tap every time. But generally speaking, tears aren’t a big part of my day-to-day emotional repertoire.
“Generally speaking” does not include yesterday.
Boy, did I cry. They were heartbroken tears (My daughters were so excited to vote and I want them to know their voices matter, dammit.) and angry tears (How can the left not see that this is an Islama-communist takeover???) and disappointed tears (Seriously, Texas?) and exasperated tears (So, you mean to tell me that the fake polls were actually right?) and weary tears (OMG, here come the pronouns again.) and fuming, furious, utterly disgusted tears (If I see one more “We did it! Faith in humanity restored!💙💙💙” social media post, I *will* punch something.). Like a Biden official standing at the border, I just let them come.
Normally on my walks I listen to clips on X or catch up on Substack audio, but yesterday, I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t ready for the bad-news tsunami. So instead I pulled up my favorite Spotify playlist, “Mom Songs SHUT UP THEY’RE GOOD.” (Yes, our family shares a Spotify account and yes, that’s the actual name because no, we do not also share the same musical taste.) I was a good hour in and still wiping away tears when Shakira’s “Waka Waka” came on.
Don’t judge.
You’re a good soldier, choosing your battles.
Pick yourself up and dust yourself off, get back in the saddle.
You’re on the front line, everyone’s watching.
You know it’s serious, we’re getting closer, this isn’t over.The pressure’s on, you feel it.
But you got it all, believe it.
When you fall, get up (oh-oh!).
And if you fall, get up (eh-eh!).
[Something catchy in Fang, apparently]Listen to your God, this is our motto.
Your time to shine, don’t wait in line, y vamos por todo
[“we’re going all the way”].
People are raising their expectations.
Go on and feed ‘em, this is your moment, no hesitations.Today’s your day, I feel it.
You paved the way, believe it.
When you fall, get up (oh-oh!).
And if you fall, get up (eh-eh!).
[Something catchy in Fang, apparently]
I know. It’s just a song. A song about soccer (I think?), for crying out loud. But after the third replay—I said, don’t judge—the tears were gone. Hand to heart. (I’ll admit, I had not expected my emotional support team to include Shakira, but here we are.) Because honestly, when you fall, you do get up. Every time. There’s no, “well, that sucked, I guess I’ll just die here on the floor then.” You might be bruised and you’re probably embarrassed and if you’re old enough to remember the Beatles’ breakup, there’s a decent chance you need a hand to get back on your feet, but you get up.
So after Pollyanna here had herself a nice little pity party, she picked herself up, dusted herself off, and went hunting for hope. And because as we seek, so shall we find, she dug up a surprising bit of it… including a few nuggets she wasn’t expecting.
Yes, social media is more cesspool-y than ever. The finger-pointing on the right is relentless, and the smug celebrations on the left are exhaustive—and exhausting. But for starters, as of this writing, I have yet to see a single conservative shrieking on her knees over the election results. Nobody appears to have organized a congressional coup, not a single American city is on fire, and to my knowledge, the nation’s plate-glass windows remain largely intact. Even Donald Trump—whose graciousness toward political opponents is roughly as legendary as his fondness for modest interior decor—congratulated Democrats on a hard-fought victory. Graciously. Sincerely. With a chuckle in his voice.
Apparently, it is possible to lose an election without throwing a toddler-grade tantrum. That’s got to be worth celebrating.
Secondly—and as consolation prizes go, I realize this one ranks up there with a carnival goldfish that has a three-hour lifespan—Trump is still president. Sure, he may be a boorish, pig-headed oaf, but he’s our boorish, pig-headed oaf, which last time I checked was infinitely better than their cackling word-salad spinner. He’s still got considerable executive authority, veto power, and the keys to the White House. Democrats might control Congress, but they don’t have a two-thirds majority in either chamber, so Trump still (mostly) gets the last word.
Then there’s the little matter of “Congratulations! Now you have to deliver.” For months, progressive candidates campaigned on everything from cheaper groceries and universal healthcare to a taxpayer-funded utopia with no cops, no landlords, and bottomless freebies. Winning means voters are going to be looking to them to actually make good on those lofty promises. And it’s one thing to pledge to give everyone a pony. It’s another when you have to explain that pony ownership comes with buying the hay, cleaning the stalls, and disposing of 330 million tons of manure.
Once the new-pony smell wears off, I think more than a few of the arrogant, insufferable AWFLs who are currently patting themselves on the backs for their stellar picks are going to be in for a rude awakening. Because the campaign trail is a lot like Tinder. Everybody’s gorgeous, financially secure, emotionally available, and loves long walks on the beach. Then you move in together and discover your so-called catch has $36 in his checking account, still texts his ex, and sleeps with his mouth open.
(Or, you know, peppers his obnoxious, self-congratulatory Senate victory speech with Arabic.)
One fantasy scenario playing out on X is that Trump is actually pulling a Muhammad Ali. Three days before the election, POTUS posted footage of Ali losing to Joe Frazier in 1971. But Ali’s most famous maneuver came three years later, when he let George Foreman pound him on the ropes until the poor bastard was completely spent before bouncing back and knocking him out. In boxing, it’s known as a rope-a-dope, which sounds like something you’d find hanging in your grandfather’s shower but is apparently a consistently winning fighting strategy.
In this storyline, Trump is mimicking the heavyweight champ’s signature move: cheerfully congratulating Democrats, pretending he’s down for the count, and quietly preparing his counterpunch while everyone mistakes his defeat for surrender. Proponents point to election-record preservation orders, federal monitors, and military cybersecurity preparations as evidence that the gloves are unequivocally still on. The part that makes it almost believable is that Trump just got his political teeth knocked in—and somehow he’s smiling through the blood instead of swearing vengeance or demanding a rematch.
It’s almost like you can picture it.
There’s also an interesting, quasi-adjacent premise being hyped online—one you might be inclined to dismiss as another installment of Trust the Plan: The Musical—but some folks are convinced this election isn’t over. No, not because they think 17 million Republican votes are going to be discovered in a broom closet in the basement of a Detroit bowling alley. (Although… would anyone even be surprised?)
The optimism centers around Executive Order 13848, signed by Trump in 2018 and extended this past August, which mandates a post-election assessment of foreign interference by the Director of National Intelligence, with findings due to the president and other senior officials within 45 days—meaning by December 18. (And in July, he delivered a televised address warning of vulnerabilities to foreign hacking and manipulation, so.) The theory—straight out of the QAnon Bible, admittedly—is that yesterday’s suspiciously lopsided results were [*checks notes*] exactly what the Patriots in Control wanted to happen.
“Sometimes you have to allow a crime to be committed in order to prosecute a crime” is how the argument goes. I mean, it’s not… entirely unreasonable.
David Clements, former law professor and prosecutor and renowned election-denier, appears to be all in on this one. He laid out the specifics in a must-watch thirty-minute video (you can read the transcript below, but don’t; watching is key), where he covers everything from Trump’s million dollar bounty for voter fraud intel leading to arrests and convictions to precisely how he believes the groundwork has been laid for a reckoning of, well, Biblical proportions.
A quick snippet (with thanks to Laura Kasner for the share):
“[F]or those paying attention, we are seeing a dry run of arrests for lower-level criminals. Trump feigns ignorance. Elaborate schemes, financial ties, foreign interests. The people wrap their heads around the real prospect of politicians being indicted, and FBI agents once thinking they were untouchable, get touched. Omar unravels, saying she did not marry her brother, at least not to her knowledge…”
Now. Do I believe there’s a top-secret military operation in the works that’s about to flip Congress back to red, or that we really are trapped in a never-ending game of holographic chess? Let’s just say that after years of being assured that the walls are closing in, the arrests are imminent, the White Hats are in control, and the Really Big Reveal is absolutely coming on Octember eleventy-seventh, two-thousand-and-pineapple, my tolerance for unfiltered, straight-up hopium is somewhere between recovering addict and court-ordered abstinence. But trust me, if somebody produces incontrovertible evidence of any of these best-case scenarios—and not just promises of them—I’ll happily trade my MAHA hat for a Q beanie.
Here’s the thing: The election interference and political possum theories are seductive because without them, we’re left with: we screwed up. We picked the wrong people, focused on the wrong issues, ignored the wrong arguments, and in some cases (you know who you are) skipped the polls entirely. We basically acted like a government trifecta was a deed to the house, when in reality it’s a two-year lease. We took what we had for granted—it’s human nature and all—and now we regret it. And even if China was busy running a ballot harvesting mill out of a Temu warehouse or sending a thousand bots to do the work of one embarrassing uncle, those things can still be true. The blessing of a skinned knee isn’t the sympathy or the pretty Band-Aid; it’s learning that perhaps you should watch where you’re going.
That’s the part that putting all your eggs in any theoretical basket, no matter how strong or sturdy, lets us skip: figuring out what we can do better. Why change anything if the real results—or the surprise uppercut or the long-awaited tribunals and televised executions—are just about to land?
I think that’s the difference between hopium and hope. One gives you something to wait for. The other gives you something to work for.
I’ll tell you a joke. This guy—I’ll call him Guy—is flat broke. His bank account is overdrawn, his credit cards are maxed out, and his financial plan consists entirely of divine intervention. Every night before bed, he drops to his knees and implores the Almighty to let him win the lottery. Weeks pass. Then months. One night, in a fit of despair, Guy throws his hands toward heaven and wails, “LORD! I’ve prayed! I’ve begged! I’ve put all my faith in you! Why won’t you let me win the lottery?” God replies, “Guy. For the love of Me. Buy a damn ticket.”
I could be wrong, but I think maybe JD Vance has heard that one.
“I remain hopeful about our country,” the VP wrote on X yesterday. “To the people who are pissed off and want to say, ‘I told you so’: you’re right, you did tell us so. Take that energy into electing Republicans who share your worldview. To the people who are just pissed at the results, you should be. Let’s take that anger and get back to the work of saving our country.”
Because we have to save our country. I’m not leaving this mess to my daughters without a fight.
POLL REDUX FOR FINICKY PHONES:
How are you feeling about the Midterm Massacre™ today?
Send snacks and a priest.
Murderously furious.
Down, not out.
I TRUST THE PLAN.
*combo/unsure/other
Great column, Jenna! We had a do-nothing Republican Congress, and the people spoke by sitting this one out. I heard JD say too many republicans were POed at the republicans in congress, and voted democrat. I don’t believe that for a second. We just didn’t show up. We wiffed! Moving forward, it’s not the Congress we wanted, but the Congress we have. And we still have the 🔑. We’ll be okay!
Look at the results in Texas. A Blue Tsunami. Not statistically possible without massive fraud. Many Red States experienced the same Blue Tsunami. IMO the Democrats completely overplayed their stealing ways. No replay of 2024 for them. Now Trump is uncharacteristically quiet. Something is up. Things will be getting spicy.