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I hadn’t gone to any of the balls in 2009—Matt was working that night and I was still in New York anyway and wasn’t all that interested. But this year, I was dying to go. I imagined all of us, in gowns and tuxes, sipping champagne and eating cheese while we watched the Obamas dance. It would be sort of like Downton Abbey, but with everyone taking selfies the whole time.
After all the excitement and stress of the election, things had been quiet. And while we were thrilled with the outcome, part of me almost missed how purposeful election season had been—all of our energy had been directed at that one thing. Now, without hours of MSNBC to watch and debates to discuss, we had time on our hands. We were lost. The balls were a reason to celebrate again, something to shake us out of our funk.
The Black Tie and Boots ball was crazy—it was less like a ball and more like a gathering of superdrunk Texans. Ash wore a red shiny dress and a cowboy hat and brought along another tiny cowboy hat that she perched on her stomach. Jimmy (of course) wore his cowboy boots. I’d gotten a blow-out that day and asked them to make it “big,” thinking that would be festive, but it looked tame compared to everyone else’s. At one point, the band played “Deep in the Heart of Texas,” and Matt and I got caught in some sort of mosh pit. Our eyes met as we were tossed around by all the rowdy, singing Texans, and I thought for sure it would be the end of us. We had no choice but to join in and wound up drinking whiskey until morning.
The next day, we ignored our hangovers and went to an Iowa reunion party at the Hilton across the street, where I tripped on my heels and fell forward, hitting my head on David Axelrod’s back. He was nice about it, but I was mortified and Matt said later, “You just need to watch where you’re going,” like I was a reckless child.
On Monday, Ash and I got our hair done in the afternoon and then went back to my place to hang out until it was time to get ready. She’d brought her stuff over so that we could get dressed together—we thought it would be more fun that way. “Like prom,” she said, and then pointed to her stomach. “Well, not exactly like prom.”
We sat on the couch and chatted, sitting upright so we wouldn’t ruin our hair. I was already exhausted from the previous two nights and I could feel my eyes closing, and wished I could take a quick nap, but I felt like I couldn’t complain in front of Ash, who was going to all the same parties as I was, but carrying an extra person around. She was so pregnant that crowds parted as they saw her stomach coming toward them, which was actually a really helpful way to navigate the parties. “I’m fine,” she kept saying. I think she was tired of everyone widening their eyes when they saw her and saying, “Whoa,” like they thought she was going to go into labor right then and there. And still, she insisted on wearing heels. Which almost seemed dangerous, but she assured me she could handle it.
Jimmy got dressed at home and then came over, so we could all ride together, and when Ash and I were done putting on our makeup, we found him and Matt sitting on the couch, each holding a beer and looking bleary.
“How are we doing?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” Matt said. “This is like senior week, only now we’re old.”
“You ladies look beautiful,” Jimmy said, standing up and stretching.
“Beth does, at least,” Ash said. “I look like a float in a parade.”
“But the most beautiful float I’ve ever seen,” Jimmy said, and Ash stuck her tongue out at him.
Jimmy went out to flag down a cab, which took about twenty minutes. We didn’t talk much on the ride there, but I was still excited for the night. In 2009, there had been ten balls that Obama attended, but this year there were just two, and they were both in the Convention Center, on different floors. We were attending the “official” ball, but had gotten good tickets, and Jimmy somehow finagled us passes to a VIP area, where we sat on couches and had access to an open bar. We were in a raised loft that overlooked the room, and we watched as different performers took the stage, laughing and cheering when Alicia Keys sang, “Obama’s on Fire.”