Probably the best melt today.

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I woke up on Election Day like a bride: rosy, thrilled, a little controlling about just how MY perfect day would be spent. After working on the Clinton campaign for eighteen months, I was ready to celebrate, and sure that by nightfall I'd be knocking back glasses of champagne and creating a story to tell my unborn children. Maybe I'd even get close enough to Hillary Clinton to hug her, to whisper "Thank you." I had dreamed about it every night for the last two weeks.

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So on Tuesday — Jesus, it's almost embarrassing to remember — I smugly selected a baby-blue sweater with a not-so-subtle p**** motif and headed to vote with my boyfriend, smiling at the elderly socialists on my block like it was Sesame Street.

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At a certain point it became clear something had gone horribly wrong. Celebrants' faces turned. The modeling had been incorrect. Watching the numbers in Florida, I touched my face and realized I was crying. "Can we please go home?" I said to my boyfriend. I could tell he was having trouble breathing, and I could feel my chin breaking into hives. Another woman showed me her matching hive, hidden by fresh concealer.

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At home I got in the shower and began to cry even harder. My boyfriend, who had already wept, watched me as I mumbled incoherently, clutching myself. "It wasn't supposed to go this way. It was supposed to be her job. She worked her whole life for the job. It's her job."

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