So Here’s the Thing…: Notes on Growing Up, Getting Older, and Trusting Your Gut(10)

Safety pins: V-necks don’t fit me quite right—too much cleave—so I am crafty with the pins. Good thing to carry in your purse as well for surprise wardrobe malfunctions (yours or a friend’s).

Ponds Cream for Dry Skin: I have savagely dry elbows!

Goody headband: If you follow me on Instagram, this will occasionally make an appearance—I have bangs and need something to get them out of my face while I do all the stuff I need to do to prevent zits. I also have a shower cap to spare my blowouts.

CBD pills and drops: I too am on the CBD train. It helps you relax!

L’Oréal Age Perfect Cell Renewal Rosy Tone Moisturizer: Gives you a very nice “alive” look even when you feel dead. The downside is that when I wash my face at night, there is some pink on the face towel, which irritates me. I could get a pink face towel, I guess.

Dosist vape pens: They vibrate when you’ve gotten exactly 2.25 mg (one dose)! I recommend them to everyone I know! Weed should be legal!





When John Kerry Saw Me in My Underwear



John Kerry’s 2004 “Sea to Shining Sea” tour ran from Boston, Massachusetts, to Portland, Oregon, and it had almost as many slogans—it was also called “Believe in America,” and about ten other things—as it did complicated logistical maneuvers. To travel nearly three thousand miles through twenty-two states in fifteen days, we took buses to a ferry to more buses to a train to more buses; helicopters and planes were also involved. We were traveling with the entire Kerry family and the entire Edwards family, and by the time we got to Kansas City—can’t remember if it was Missouri or Kansas—we had to pause the trip, take an unplanned daylong break so they could all rest, and push everything back a full day, which created a domino effect of disasters and scheduling conflicts that involved, ultimately, more traveling, because the city we’d planned to stay in one night had no vacancies in any hotel because it was hosting a regional Little League World Series tournament. My gums were bleeding by the end, and we were delirious from exhaustion.

The last leg of the last bus portion went through Death Valley, spitting us out in Santa Monica for a dinner and beach party for the press before we would finish things off in Oregon. (We had to end on the latter “shining sea”—get it? I maintain that our absurd conceptual confusion is why we lost.) Everyone was looking forward to this dinner, which would signify not only that we were nearing the end of this self-imposed odyssey but also that we were in California, which is really nice.

There comes a point during a campaign when you stop thinking about anything but the immediate task in front of you. For me, this point had come and gone days or weeks before we all arrived at our hotel in Santa Monica, when we had a blissful hour or so to get ready before the party. As soon as I got to the room I was sharing with Doug, my boyfriend, the immediate task in front of me became: shower. It was really hot in the room, too, so showering would have the added benefit of making me less sweaty.

When you travel with Secret Service, your bags need to be inspected, and then they’re brought to your room, so you always leave the hotel door open so someone can drop them off. I did this without a thought and went on with my shower plan.

While I was in the shower, someone must have brought our bags in, because when I got out there was a ton of stuff in our hallway, including JK’s Tour de France–style bike. JK’s overachieving spirit was evident in the scope and ambition of this tour, so when I tell you that he also brought his fancy bike everywhere, it should make sense. I was so dazed that I didn’t notice it or register its significance in our room—part of Doug’s job was to handle all JK’s stuff.

I had managed to put on a T-shirt and a pair of pink underwear when I got the idea to turn on the radio. “Dancing on the Ceiling” filled the room. In that moment, nothing could have been better. I was clean. I was groovy. I turned it up and decided to take a break from getting dressed to lie on the bed. It was like I hadn’t lain on a bed in months, maybe years! I spread my arms wide to take up space and began to sort of shimmy my shoulders as I lay on my back. I was so excited to be lying down that I began to space out a bit. I was the star of a movie about a spunky independent girl who’s just moved to New York and gotten her dream job and is now celebrating by lying in bed and dancing to Lionel Richie. Or maybe I was proto–Hannah Horvath in Girls. This reverie lasted about thirty seconds, until I heard the door open and saw presidential candidate Senator John Kerry materialize in front of me, saying something about his bike.

Neither of us said a word, and my instincts kicked in. I grabbed the edge of the comforter and rolled myself up like a burrito. He took his bike, and from my hiding place I heard it click out of the room.

The practical advice here is to always lock your doors—it won’t kill the Secret Service to have to knock!

The spiritual advice is a little more satisfying. Today I’d characterize myself as someone who gives no fucks, who understands that accidents happen and who can laugh about them relatively soon after. But at the risk of sounding trite, the world was very different back then! We had no Lena Dunham dancing in her underwear on HBO. We had no mainstream body-positivity movement. I was definitely thinner than I am now, but I didn’t feel thin. Even ignoring the fact that it was my boss and that my boss was John Kerry, I was so ashamed to be seen without my clothes on—seen doing something super dorky without my clothes on—that I didn’t go to the party that night.