Written by a woman who just resigned from her 15 year career in ad sales to work for the Obama campaign:
As anyone who has ever attended an “important show” knows (think Marc, Oscar, Calvin), there is a certain pre-show ritual: What are you going to wear; who are you going to see; and when is the show going to start? Will it be better or worse than the last?
I have to confess I felt a certain shame that the dress I wore—a bright-red Prada number from next season that my former boss, Carol, insisted I buy the day before—cost more than the $1,000 ticket to the event itself. After surveying the large crowd, however, I quickly realized that this dress was a big standout in a sea of black, brown, and grey. How this paid off I’ll share in a moment.
The town-hall style staging of the event meant that, during the delayed start, I was compelled to work the room, mixing and mingling with my new friends on the campaign—all of whom I’ve come to fixate like a transfer student in a new high school might on the cool kids in class.
As I was chatting with my new BFF, Steven Newmark, the founder of the New York Chapter of Young Lawyers for Obama, and his wife in front of a wall of waiting photographers (very familiar), an announcer declared that Caroline Kennedy was taking the stage. As there was no “show is starting” signal like at fashion shows—blinking lights or the peeling away of the runway’s protective cover—I found myself on the opposite side of the huge ballroom with no time to rush back to my seat. I made it halfway there but found myself barricaded by guardrails.
It reminded me of the ridiculous moment at the February Burberry show in Milan when my colleague Dan and I spent so much time schmoozing and ignoring the warning signs that we got caught between the aisles and were ordered to sit on the stairs in a near fetal position. Now, at least, I was on my feet as Senator Obama entered the room. Fate had blessed me in this moment, as I realized that the aisle that was keeping me from my seat was created for him and his secret service escort to make their way to the stage. Within seconds, he was a few feet from me. Cameras were flashing, everyone was cheering, and I knew this was my moment. I pushed my way up to the barricade as he shook hands with as many people as time would allow. I squeezed up front, but Obama was moving quickly and just passed me by. Then, in a moment of divine intervention, he saw me, clad in my red stop-sign of a dress, back-tracked ever so slightly in his procession, grabbed my hand, and gave that brilliant smile of his. I literally said out loud to the woman next to me who witnessed my good fate, “I’ll never wash this hand again.”
*ponders* I might have to tryÂ a similarÂ tactic at the next Obama event I attend.Â That is, if they don’t figure out I’m a Republican, first Â
Figuring that my efforts were best spent raising money for the campaign, I have thrown myself into a new world—one in which fluffy chatter and frivolous praise are replaced by a get-to-the-point directness and disciple-like devotion. It’s intense and intoxicating.
I think I’m about ready to get intoxicated just reading this puffed upÂ nonsense.