I voted last week. Along with 120 million other Americans, I exercised my right to vote for president and neatly penciled in ballot choices for candidates aiming to fill a variety of lesser offices. At 55, I have gone through this routine before. Somehow it still thrills me.

Following a move six months ago, I was anxious to see that my name was properly recorded as belonging to my new precinct. I was curious to explore my newly assigned polling place, a small taqueria barely a block from my house. Vote Aqui; the sign on the door said.

At 6:30 in the morning, I tumbled through the front doors of the small storefront burrito palace then was pointed to a backroom. Six voting booths were set up and Dunkin’ Donuts flowed freely between the poll watchers and other volunteers. It was a beautiful reminder of why I like to live in a city. Mexican laborers, Korean shop owners and young professionals who want to live near public transportation all converged at the Huaraches Restaurant and formed an orderly line. I was happy I missed early voting opportunities and had to participate in this first Tuesday of November public ritual.

Yes, the stakes involved in this election felt huge. I was tired of the campaigning and pundit-izing and discouraged that issues like climate change never became a debate topic. I voted early, went on with my day then had a friend join me to watch the results and commentary on TV.

But I don’t just love to vote on big stakes things; on political candidates or referendums. While I have never dialed in to promote my favorite balladeer on American Idol or voted on my preferred jive artist on Dancing With the Stars, I can’t seem to get enough opportunities to make my opinion count.

I am the youngest in my family. Somehow it seemed that I didn’t get to weigh in with the same authority as my parents or older sisters on just about everything. It seemed like I only had half a vote on restaurants or vacation destinations or car colors. (On those few occasions when we were ready to get a new family car, I would have opted for red every time and dark green or beige usually prevailed.)

Exercising my choice about anything is almost sacred to me. And that’s what voting is; exercising one’s perogative, voicing a preference, making your choice count.

Sometimes, I can paralyze myself with indecision. I can become afraid of making an incorrect choice. Or, recognizing that my optimal choice is not available, I’ll refuse to weigh in on the choices that are in front of me. That might be like the millions of Americans who didn’t vote in last week’s election because they couldn’t make up their minds, or because they didn’t want to wait in line, or because their favorite candidate never made it to the ballot.

Then I will remember all the choices that are in front of me, or I will remember my ability to re-choose (should I change my mind later). Moment by moment, I can re-choose how I want to present myself to the world, what I want to give my energy to, who I want to be associated with, what kinds of activities uplift me and fill me with joy.

We’re always voting. We’re continually creating our lives with our choices. Voting on anything is no small thing.