Two Days.

From whoo to phew.

Day 1.

I was shopping. A dress caught my eye and I asked a saleswoman if they had it in my size. She scanned the tag with a device and I glanced at my phone.

“Oh my god, I have to go!” I said. “Biden just won!”

She screamed. I screamed. The whole damned store screamed.

Fifth Avenue erupted. Horns blared. I called my husband, my kids. We all screamed. I told Philip I’d meet him at Washington Square.

People hugged. Strangers high-fived. Someone with a guitar played This Land Is Your Land and everyone sang along. I cried. We all did.

I called my mother, who had heard it on TV. “It sounds like you’re at a party,” she said and I told her New York was a party and that we were going to have champagne on the roof of our building. She said she’d have some ice cream with the ladies.

At home, I heard our neighbors in the hallway and threw our door open. Dennis and Chelsa exploded off the elevator, bags over their shoulders, kids running through their legs.

“We got to our house and saw it on our phones and didn’t even go inside,” Chelsa said. “We just turned around and came back. We had to be here.”

We kept popping out to the street for adrenaline rushes. All you had to do was yell “whoo” and horns honked in response.

As I walked, I listened to The Grateful Dead’s "He’s Gone” and smiled at the words, “and nothing’s gonna bring him back.” No more Trump. No more meanness. The end of divisiveness.

How innocent I was that day.

Later, we headed to the roof. Neighbors. Friends. Our kids came home to celebrate and the little kids from next door hugged everyone. I wore a white top with jeans and red shoes because I was so happy to be American, in a country where the good guy won.

We kept pouring champagne.

Horns honked from the street and we cheered. There was no “whoo” that wasn’t met with a louder one from the sidewalk below.

“To Joe,” we said.

We clinked. We cheered.

Our guy. Our country. Our day to revel.

Day 2.

The good guy had become the bad guy.

Joe was like a party guest who’d had too much to drink and wouldn’t fucking leave. I hated being mad at him.

His logic infuriated me - “just look at my record.”

It reminded me of my mother, at 90, when we said she should stop driving.

“But I’ve driven all my life and never gotten a ticket,” she answered.

“But F, those swoony feelings you keep getting, they come on suddenly, right?” I said.

“But it’s never happened when I’m driving.”

“But it could,” I said. My brother and sister said the same.

Still. Our reasonable, measured mother wouldn’t listen.

She came up with plans - she’d only go to Shop Rite. And she wouldn’t go fast (as if she ever had.)

We came up with alternate plans. We’d set up an Instacart account. We’d order Ubers for her whenever she needed them.

She continued to hammer us with her argument, but now in a weaker tone.

She added “never had an accident” to “never gotten a ticket” and then said, “I’m a good driver,” in a way that sounded more like begging than insisting.

We hated having to do it to her.

Because, of course, it wasn’t just her independence on the line. It was her pride.

My brother and I sat at her kitchen table as the three of us drank coffee.

“It’s not about how you’ve driven in the past,” David said. “You’ve been great."

“And never a ticket,” she added, as if it was a new argument.

“Never,” he said. “But it’s not about how you’ve driven. It’s about what could happen if you keep driving,” he said. He sounded stern, the way my father used to, when our grades faltered.

“What if you got dizzy and couldn’t pull over?” my brother said.

“But it’s only to Shop Rite,” she answered weakly.

“F,” I said, waiting until she looked at me. “Can you imagine if you hurt someone?”

She took a sip of coffee because she had no answer. Finally, she put her cup down.

“I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt someone,” she said softly.

And that was it. We won.

But it didn’t feel like winning.

We thanked her for making the right decision and she thanked us for being honest.

When I left that day, I walked through the garage and looked at her car. I peered into the window. Nothing out of place. A beige umbrella tucked into the side pocket on the passenger side. I gave its hood a little tap. A sensible Toyota, that, like its sensible driver, had done its job well.

As I walked down her driveway to the street, I turned. She stood at her place in the kitchen window.

We waved. Blew kisses.

She smiled.

But she looked sad.

Yesterday, I was in a restaurant with my daughter Ava. The heat had gotten to us as we’d walked from the Whitney, where we didn’t go in, because it was crowded and we had a brunch reservation and…as much as we wanted some culture… we just didn’t feel like it. Instead, we went straight to Pastis, hoping they’d seat us ahead of our reservation. But it was packed. Zoo-like. We just couldn’t. We left, our spirits as damp as the air of the quiet Sunday streets we walked through.

We ended up at a place in our neighborhood, and were about to order, as I glanced at my phone.

“Oh my god! Biden dropped out.”

Ava’s eyes widened. Our phones lit up.

We told the waitress. She dropped her pad and we had the joy of being news-breakers.

“I guess champagne is in order?” she said.

We got mimosas and toasted.

“To Joe,” we said.

We clinked. And watched as people around us looked at their phones and widened their eyes.

It felt good. It felt right.

But no horns honked. No one yelled whoo.

A sensible man was (finally) doing the sensible thing.

We nodded with appreciation.

And understanding.

We were relieved.

And happy.

And also, a little sad.

The whole thing had been so draining and had taken way too long.

But this was no small decision.

And anyone who’s ever loved an old person gets it.

Here’s to President Biden, for being exactly what he is.

A Good Joe.