Watching Clinton on 60 Minutes last night was a lot like seeing an old boyfriend years after you’ve broken up. Seeing his face glisten with intelligence and honest Arkansas sweat I was overwhelmed by nostalgia, and suddenly I didn’t care that he’d been bombing Iraq behind my back for our entire relationship. I just wanted him back.
Like many meetings with exes, the conversation was sort of disappointing. I wanted to hear him talk about the good times we’d had together, like the time he facilitated peace talks between Israel and Palestine, but he just kept on bringing up those tired old sex issues. Monica, Paula, Jennifer, Hilary — where was America’s name on that list, Bill? Don’t you care anymore? Don’t you miss me like I miss you? You eat barbecue with Dan Rather as if you’re just another guy, but I know better. You were the first president I ever had a crush on, even though I knew from the start that our relationship was doomed to end, and you are anything but average.
At the end of the hour, I was a little bit older and a little bit wiser. I know there will be other presidents, but never again will I let myself fall as hard as I did for that squashed-nose, just-folks charmer known as Bill Clinton*.
*and sometimes Bubba.
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