Before I blew out all seventy-two candles on my birthday cake this year, I made a wish. I wished for something that had been gnawing at my soul ever since I first received my AARP card.
It was finally time to launch my political career.
But a sobering thought struck me. Am I perhaps too young to be taken seriously as a Democratic congressperson? I worry that the powers that be might take one look at my salt-and-pepper hair, only slightly elevated blood pressure, and spry body with both its original hips, and laugh me right out of the Capitol.
Could I even relate to the older members of the party? What if they make a reference to some TV show or song from the late sixties, when I’m more familiar with pop culture of the mid-seventies?
What if I declare my candidacy, only for Steny Hoyer to tell me, “Come back when you’ve got at least another decade of accumulated wisdom—or a pacemaker.”
