I admit it. I’m depressed. It’s been that way since the last glimmer of hope faded during the primary elections. Maybe it started with Iowa. Whatever. It’s here now and it’s real.
There’s no doubt that I have much to be thankful for these days. I have a steady job. Money in the bank. A loving daughter. As many friends as money and power can buy.
Oh, there’s that $20-million campaign debt.
That would depress anyone. Bill says he’ll just hit the speakers trail for a year and it’ll be whittled down to lunch money in no time.
Things were so bad that I called Deepak Chopra for advice. When I told him who was calling, he laughed. Apparently plenty of women call him for advice, claiming to be this or that celebrity.
Finally, he settled down and seemed to understand who he was talking to, but, seriously, I couldn’t understand a thing he was saying. About all I got out of the conversation was some heavily accented blathering about yoga, self discovery, emotional healing, mind body medicine, and something else about a Renewal Weekend in Chicago in August.
To get his world class personal advice all I had to do was give up a credit card number.
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