The Hopefuls(43)
“A what?”
He sighed. “Assistant to the press lead,” he said.
“Right,” I said.
But the thing was, I didn’t totally blame him. We both felt powerless, and despite his promise to stop watching MSNBC at night, that was all we did. I could hear Rachel Maddow in my head, always. Within a week of that dinner, Matt was scheduled on a trip and I was left to watch twenty-four-hour campaign coverage all by myself.
—
I wish I could say that I got over my initial reaction to Colleen and Ash and was a good friend to them that summer. But I didn’t. Even though it was lonely with Matt traveling, I sometimes made up excuses not to see them. It was a pity party of the greatest kind.
Ash had always been a big fan of Facebook. She posted everything—oversharing and updating her status about things no one could possibly care about, like “Just got my butt kicked at Bar Method!” “Time for a pedicure to reward myself!” But her pregnancy posts took it to a whole new level. She made her sonogram her profile picture, gave weekly measurements of the baby, updated everyone on her food cravings and aversions. There were times I’d start to feel bad that I was avoiding her, and then I’d go on Facebook and see “Feeling sick. Threw up three times today. Baby Dillon sure knows how to let her mama know she doesn’t like Mexican food.” Or “Feeling HUGE! My maternity jeans no longer fit. I’m a whale. L”
Was she going to live-tweet her birth? Why did she feel the need to share everything? And of course the comments on her posts were even worse, most of them from her girlfriends she’d grown up with in Texas. “Stop it! You are looking beautiful, Mama!”
When, I wondered, did every pregnant person get together and decide that Mama was the appropriate term to use? Why did having a baby turn these people into hillbillies?
Ash had a gender-reveal party, where she and Jimmy strung up a pi?ata on their back patio, took turns whacking it until pink knickknacks and candy sprinkled out of it. “It’s a girl,” she shrieked, and everyone clapped. I always judged Ash for the way she thought God personally looked out for her, but I myself thanked the good Lord above that they scheduled that party on a weekend I was already set to visit my parents in Wisconsin. (But don’t worry, she posted the video of the two of them taking a bat to the pi?ata, just so anyone who couldn’t make it was still able to watch.)
I’d sworn never to force Colleen and Ash into a social situation again, but that summer I did just that and suggested that we all go to brunch together. I was slightly worried they wouldn’t have much to say to each other, but they quickly bonded over their pregnancies, moaning about finding cute clothes that fit them, listing all of the things they couldn’t eat.
As Ash and Colleen talked that day about coffee and lunch meat and sushi, I was reminded of a gluten-free girl who worked with Matt and once asked if she could smell my Bo-shaped cookie at the White House Christmas party. “I miss cookies so much,” she said. “Can I take a sniff?” I didn’t know what else to do, so I held out the little frosted dog for her and she leaned over and breathed in deeply. When she was done, I put the cookie down on the table. I didn’t want it anymore. Her nose had been too close to it and it had lost its appeal.
I knew that girl didn’t want to smell my cookie, she just wanted to remind me that she couldn’t eat it. So when Colleen said dramatically, “I really miss eating fried eggs,” and Ash said, “Oh girl, me too!” I just sipped my coffee and spaced out.
At the end of brunch, Ash and Colleen exchanged phone numbers and made plans to send their registries to each other, so they could make sure they weren’t missing anything, and I watched them hug good-bye with the beginning of a headache behind my eyes.
—
I’d hoped that going on the campaign trips would make Matt happy, that it would settle his restlessness just a little. But it didn’t. He returned from these trips tired and cranky, annoyed that he had to go back to the DOE.
He wasn’t happy with the White House liaison job, and I tried to be sympathetic, but I started to think that no job was going to live up to what he wanted. The things he complained about sounded childish: “I’m so far away from the White House,” he’d say. “I can’t walk in there anymore, someone has to meet me at the gate. I have to wear a visitor’s badge.”
What was I supposed to say to this? I’m sorry that you have to take a cab to the White House now? I’m sorry that you have to wear a different color badge so that everyone knows you’re not as important as they are?
I always tried to stay positive. “You said this is good experience,” I reminded him. “That working for the DOE would help you if you ran for office. That it could be part of your platform.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s just not what I thought it would be.”
“Don’t you kind of think everyone feels that way about their job?” I asked.
Matt looked up at me for a moment and then said, “No. I don’t.”
—
The last couple of months before the election were brutal. It was like we were all just waiting, killing time, hoping for the best. My insomnia and night terrors got worse, which was sort of embarrassing. Of everyone in DC, I probably cared the least about politics—so why was I plagued with nightmares? Was this what living here did to you? What was wrong with me?