The Hopefuls(46)

—

I think about that day often—it was historic and amazing and I couldn’t believe I got to witness it, sure. But it was also the one time I got it, the only time I came close to understanding why Matt did this, why he’d joined the campaign in 2008, why he regretted not doing it again, why he was willing to give up his vacation days to contribute to it this time. Standing there, I could feel it—the energy, the draw, the desire to be part of this great big thing, this movement that was more than any one person, this feeling that you could start to change the world.





Washington, DC


2013





Washington is a very easy city for you to forget where you came from and why you got there in the first place.


—HARRY TRUMAN





Chapter 11


When I tried on my dress for the Inaugural Ball, all Matt could say was “It’s really shiny.” It was the kind of statement people try to pass off as a compliment: “That’s bold.” “Your shirt is unusual.” “I’ve never seen a skirt look like that.”

“It looks like something Vanna White wore on Wheel of Fortune,” I said.

“It’s not that bad.” But a little smile flickered on his lips and I knew he secretly agreed with me.

“Actually,” I said, looking at myself in the mirror, “I’m pretty sure she wore this exact dress. What am I going to do? It looked so much better online.”

“Why don’t you just wear one of the other ones?” Matt said. I’d rented three different dresses from Rent the Runway, one for each of the balls we were going to—the Black Tie and Boots ball on Saturday (as guests of Jimmy and Ash, of course), the official Inaugural Ball on Monday, and the Staff Ball on Tuesday.

“I can’t do that!” I said. “We’re going to see all the same people at them.” Even Ash, who was almost nine months pregnant, had three different maternity gowns to wear. No one was messing around.

Matt just shrugged his shoulders, knowing that anything he suggested wasn’t going to calm me down as I stood bedazzled in front of him. After a flurry of text exchanges with Ash, I decided my best bet was to head to Friendship Heights, where there were a million stores and had to be at least one suitable dress. But when I got there, every department store looked like it had been ransacked, like a looting had taken place. Who was I kidding? It was the Saturday before the inauguration and every female in DC was desperate for a gown. I tried on one dress that was a size double zero and got stuck as I attempted to pull it over my head, sweating in the dressing room for almost twenty minutes while I swore silently and prayed it wouldn’t rip. There were a few other women there too, circling the store like hyenas, examining the leftover dresses, searching for anything salvageable. Somehow, among the scraps, I found one long black dress that wasn’t horrible. I knew I’d never wear it again, but I bought it immediately. It would have to do.

—

I hadn’t gone to any of the balls in 2009—Matt was working that night and I was still in New York anyway and wasn’t all that interested. But this year, I was dying to go. I imagined all of us, in gowns and tuxes, sipping champagne and eating cheese while we watched the Obamas dance. It would be sort of like Downton Abbey, but with everyone taking selfies the whole time.

After all the excitement and stress of the election, things had been quiet. And while we were thrilled with the outcome, part of me almost missed how purposeful election season had been—all of our energy had been directed at that one thing. Now, without hours of MSNBC to watch and debates to discuss, we had time on our hands. We were lost. The balls were a reason to celebrate again, something to shake us out of our funk.

The Black Tie and Boots ball was crazy—it was less like a ball and more like a gathering of superdrunk Texans. Ash wore a red shiny dress and a cowboy hat and brought along another tiny cowboy hat that she perched on her stomach. Jimmy (of course) wore his cowboy boots. I’d gotten a blow-out that day and asked them to make it “big,” thinking that would be festive, but it looked tame compared to everyone else’s. At one point, the band played “Deep in the Heart of Texas,” and Matt and I got caught in some sort of mosh pit. Our eyes met as we were tossed around by all the rowdy, singing Texans, and I thought for sure it would be the end of us. We had no choice but to join in and wound up drinking whiskey until morning.

The next day, we ignored our hangovers and went to an Iowa reunion party at the Hilton across the street, where I tripped on my heels and fell forward, hitting my head on David Axelrod’s back. He was nice about it, but I was mortified and Matt said later, “You just need to watch where you’re going,” like I was a reckless child.

On Monday, Ash and I got our hair done in the afternoon and then went back to my place to hang out until it was time to get ready. She’d brought her stuff over so that we could get dressed together—we thought it would be more fun that way. “Like prom,” she said, and then pointed to her stomach. “Well, not exactly like prom.”

We sat on the couch and chatted, sitting upright so we wouldn’t ruin our hair. I was already exhausted from the previous two nights and I could feel my eyes closing, and wished I could take a quick nap, but I felt like I couldn’t complain in front of Ash, who was going to all the same parties as I was, but carrying an extra person around. She was so pregnant that crowds parted as they saw her stomach coming toward them, which was actually a really helpful way to navigate the parties. “I’m fine,” she kept saying. I think she was tired of everyone widening their eyes when they saw her and saying, “Whoa,” like they thought she was going to go into labor right then and there. And still, she insisted on wearing heels. Which almost seemed dangerous, but she assured me she could handle it.