Though the current state of global affairs — and, more specifically, our country’s tottering position in it — has me a bit queasy, I am generally a fan of the basic ideals upon which this country was founded. And, as I consider myself of the James Baldwin school of patriotism — " I love America more than any other country in the world, and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually " — I believe that with the right to criticize comes the responsibility to participate. So between voting and, just recently, trying to keep my food down during the State of the Union clap-fest, I figure I’ve covered the basics of responsible citizenship.

But just when you think you’re in the clear, participatory democracy comes and bites you in the ass. Yeah, that pesky right to be judged by a jury of your peers means that every so often you receive a letter from the government requesting the only thing you’re even more reluctant to give than your money: your time.

" Reluctant " would be a diplomatic way of describing how I felt upon receiving a recent jury summons. How quickly my feeling of participatory responsibility was eclipsed by dread, imagining that dark, foreboding courthouse-land in which it is said that time is absurdly elongated and chairs mysteriously uncomfortable. Besides, I had things to do. Faced with the Request for Postponement form, though, I couldn’t come up with anything that would keep me from fulfilling my duty except for the fact that I have both a job and an intense desire to avoid schlepping downtown — obstacles faced by many (if not most) prospective jurors. But had they already suffered through the State of the Union? I wondered.

So I went. Since I was a first-timer, I had consulted people I knew to be more seasoned victims of the hated jury summons, and they’d given me what would prove to be a crucial piece of advice: when going for jury duty, pack like you’re going on the kind of vacation that involves, say, a 24-hour plane flight and an interminable visit with distant relatives. Bring reading material to accommodate every level of brain activity, because when you put down the People magazine and realize you now understand Gwyneth Paltrow’s love life better than your own, you’ll probably want to purge with something meatier. Like Chaucer. Or at least the newspaper. Also bring food for a week, because although the jurors’ cafeteria beckons and you will most likely be dismissed at five o’clock, a day on jury duty is not like other days — it is the kind of day that might require Ho Hos. Also a Rubik’s Cube. A Walkman couldn’t hurt. It’s best to be prepared.

When I arrived at the courthouse, stooped under the weight of my supplies (who knew that a People magazine and Ho Hos could collectively weigh 20 pounds?), and realized that the only thing I hadn’t brought — and could have used — were binoculars and supersonic hearing. Because what I hadn’t known is that the jurors’ lounge, where most prospective jurors spend the bulk of their tour of duty, is the ultimate Waiting Room. Like most waiting rooms, people alternate between pretending they are alone — and not, in fact, surrounded by many other people, also waiting — and mapping the waiting-room landscape: attractive member of your preferred sex, reading intently, against the far wall; older woman, talking loudly to younger man (her son?), two seats to your right; balding head, directly in front of you, blocking all forward vision.

But the jurors’ lounge isn’t just your doctor’s-office waiting room, super-size; the 300-odd people who’ve come here to share your fate represent perhaps the greatest cross section of society you’ll ever experience in one room, with nowhere to go, for hours on end. Since the one thing you’d really like to do — leave — is not an option, you may as well check out who your " peers " really are. As you might expect (and as is, in fact, the point), they are a motley crew. Businessmen staring at their deactivated cell phones longingly, students vigorously highlighting, construction workers studying the grit under their nails — it’s like a Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood conference of society’s stereotypes. What’s interesting about jury duty is that its generous duration lends itself to spicing things up a little. You have four hours to imagine what the businessman does on his day off (fishing? Renaissance Faire?), and what the bus driver really thinks about the J.Lo article he’s buried in. You might even innocently overhear scraps of conversation — there’s plenty of time to make up the rest.

Lest I seem like the kind of person who hangs out at the RMV in my spare time, I should clarify that jury duty — and waiting in general — sucks. But if you can’t get psyched up for participatory democracy, spending the morning among people you would otherwise pass by can be an informative, if not amusing, experience. Since in the end my day in court required that I do nothing but wait and amuse myself for four hours until I was dismissed, the height of my participation was just this: seeing who my peers are and trying to put together the outline of their lives. Like watching Big Brother or Joe Millionaire, except that your imagination has to provide all the sex, competition, and juicy gossip. Participating in democracy had never been so easy — and now that I’ve done it, I consider my right to criticize fully recharged.

Rebecca Wieder can be reached at rebezca@juno.com