Watching Senator Clinton's concession speech was a moving and guilt-laden experience for me. While I believe that she would make a grand president, is as smart as any candidate the Democrats have run for the office, and certainly in a different league from the current occupant of the Oval Office, I couldn't be as enthusiastic about her candidacy as I thought I should be. She was my vegetables; Obama was my bread. She was good for me, but I filled up on the bread basket before my salad arrived. I never cared about likability before; hey, I dragged my three children to Pennsylvania to campaign for John Kerry, who was an enthusiastic non-Bush, but not particularly someone I would want to get to know. But I, like many others, disliked the entitled incumbency that I felt was pushed down my throat by the Clinton machine. She was on the Democratic bench, and I was glad. But I didn't want my choice or vote denied because of a feeling that Hillary was "next."
I'm embarrassed now that in defeat, she seems so darn likable. Of course, her loss made her more human and real. (Not unlike Clinton's tears in a New Hampshire coffee shop, when she is the real underdog, she is aces.)
Why did the moment, even in the roaring crowd of the National Buildings Museum, seem so much more intimate than so many others before?
I know what you're thinking.
It's just like my hair.
After weeks of hair that looks shaggy, falls flat, and just doesn't work, I finally schedule a haircut.
By the time my hairdresser gets back from another vacation (could be code for maintaining tresses of those more important), and I'm due to come in.... my hair looks great. I have one, no two great hair days in a row. Conceding defeat, I sit in Oscar's chair, whooping it up for change, when I knew I could turn this hair situation around all along.