Readers from The Dish present more proof that Bill Clinton is the man.
I can’t tell you the exact nature of the Clinton magic, but I can tell you it wasn’t about the body and it definitely worked. In 1992, I was 20 and spent several months volunteering for Patty Murray’s first senate campaign. On a swing through Eastern Washington, we got the opportunity to meet Clinton, who was the presumptive nominee by then (I think it was late summer). My friend and I, both hard-bitten college feminists and terribly serious, had been for Tsongas, thank you very much.
But still, we stood in line to shake hands. When he got to me I said some silly thing like, “The young women of America are counting on you, sir” … and for a full five seconds I got the baby blues right in the face. “Thank you,” he said in the drawl we came to know so well, “I need your support and I appreciate it very much.” He clasped my hand the whole time – I was melted.
And he’s seriously not my type. My friend, who already abhorred him for his rumored womanizing, got her turn and a few seconds later squealed and went dancing over the grass. She’s embarrassed about it to this day, but there was no denying the magnetism.