Nobody has seen me weep since the days after September 11.  In a drug store across the street from Union Square in Manhattan, I had gone in to buy some toothbrushes for recovery workers at ground zero.  They were already sold out.  I began bawling right there in the aisles, and my sister was there to comfort me.

Last night, just after I switched the channel to Fox News to enjoy a bit of schadenfreude, the polls closed in California, and droopy dog Brit Hume called the election for Obama.  After a few moments of reveling, completely unexpectedly, I teared up and began to weep in front of my girlfriend, who (like pretty much everyone I know) had never seen me cry.  She asked me why.  It wasn't until this afternoon, walking my dog past the President-elect's Hyde Park home (actually, just outside the security perimiter), that I found a way to express it.  For the past eight years, I have felt like a beloved fried has been gravely ill, and yesterday's election was like finally getting an appointment to see a doctor who seems to know what he's doing.