I sat next to Mrs. Obama who sat next to Elizabeth Dole. I was in shock. You sit through dinner knowing the gigantic inadequacy of the remarks you will deliver as dessert, you look into your soul and are shaken by the insipidity of what you’re about to say. The First Lady conversed equally with me and Mrs. Dole, very graciously, very naturally — I admired the skill involved, how natural it was, and when a photographer asked her to stand with me, she did and she put an arm around my back. I admired that. Politics can be so wretchedly awkward, why not try to be graceful at least?
Someone introduced me, maybe Amy Klobuchar, and her compliments were like whiplashes, whack ka-ching ker-pow, and I got up and — God help me, it was something about baseball, which had nothing to do with anything — and then I remembered Romney’s name. Mitt. I didn’t have to go google him. I lay in bed. Jenny asked if I was all right. I was. I still am.
