“Oh my god – who’s covering Michelle Obama?”

So went the line of questioning a few weeks back when it was announced that the biggest celebrity since Johnny Depp may or may not have hung out at the Ranch was coming to Durango.

And every time I heard the question, I cringed. Not because I have anything against Michelle, even if I was snubbed for the big George Clooney soiree earlier in the year. (All for the best, I didn’t have a thing to wear.)

Rather, the source of my heartburn came from my response (“uh, no one”) which was quickly followed by gasps – verbally and virtually – in horror.
“What do you mean you’re not going?” they would ask, aghast, as if I had just announced I had turned down a front-row seat for the second coming.
But rest assured, I had a good reason – several actually – none of which had anything to do with a sudden predilection for Fox News.

For starters, ticket procural day happened to land on what is known in our house, and many throughout suburban America, as Super Soccer Saturday. And seeing as how I am the assistant coach for my daughter’s second-grade team, purely by default, it was imperative that I be on the sidelines to offer my soccer expertise. Granted, my illustrious career didn’t extend past the ninth grade, but this seems to be OK as most of my “coaching” comes in the form of yelling till I’m hoarse to stop doing cartwheels, pay attention and save the cupcakes for after the game. Not exactly the sort of pep talk that wins world championships, but there’s no telling the carnage that could result from inverted 7-year-old stomachs and an overdose of  “whippy cream frosting.”

Alas, by the time I returned home from sideline cop duties, the line for Mo-bama tickets stretched nearly to Bayfield, making the quest for Follies tickets look like kindergarten recess. And, despite popular belief, there is no special “back door” press pass for smart asses like myself. Which is just as well, because even if I could have mustered the will power to stand for hours while a million household chores and errands went undone, it wouldn’t have mattered.

That’s because the First Lady’s visit happened to fall on hump day, the day for the last 10 years on which leaving my desk for any reason, even to pee, is strictly verboten. (And if you don’t believe me, just ask my husband who had the misfortune of crashing his bike on a Wednesday afternoon and taking the ambulance ride, collapsed lung and all, by himself.)

See, it may seem like hocus pocus, but there is a fair amount of logistics that go into getting this paper into your hands every Thursday at the crack of noon. And while things can, and do, fluctuate till the last minute, there is one thing set in stone: if the paper isn’t on the press by Wednesday afternoon, my name is mud.

Also, bear in mind, we are a weekly. Even if all the stars aligned, I got my ticket, the paper miraculously made it to the press early and I avoided the Secret Service cut-off, by the time we came out with our story a week later, most of you would be asking “Michelle who?”

(I must also add in full, shameless disclosure that the Wednesday before last happened to mark a little heralded milestone – the first year of an all-female crew taking the helm at the Telegra­­ph. Yes, the waters were a little choppy at times, but somehow we managed to stay afloat, and not claw each others’ eyes out in the process, an achievement worthy of a drink or three.)

Alas, that ill-timed convergence of events meant, short of a fairy Secret Service godmother, I would have to miss Michelle this go around. But as disappointed as I and some Telegraph readers were, somehow I think Michelle would understand having to play the career/family/friends card.

After all, when it comes to multi-tasking – from her 5 a.m. workouts and one-woman childhood obesity crusade to law degree and unwavering speeches – she’s got it down to an art. And she looks damned good doing it, I might add.

In other words, she’s the woman we’d all love to hate. Except it’s hard to hate someone who’s so down to earth and real. For starters, what other members of female American royalty have been known to – gasp – wear off the rack (from Target no less) and rock the same frock more than once?

 

Plus, she’s helped to bring back a little booty pride to millions of us more “athletically endowed” gals who’ve being shamed into hiding by the stick figure likes of Kate Middleton.

All this and you get the feeling she still walks Bo every day, yells at her kids to pick up their stuff and do their homework, and folds the occasional pair of underwear in the White House laundry room.

Nevertheless, she radiates confidence. She is large and in charge, doesn’t take a lot of crap and might even put a hurting on anyone who crosses her (if only I could master her one-eyebrow-raised “say what?” glare.) Which might explain how, without even stepping foot in Whalen Gymnasium last week, I somehow managed to catch Michelle fever. Everyone, from my died-in-the-blue-wool septuagenarian mother-in-law to my twentysomething hockey teammates who had never paid attention to politics a day in their lives, were fired up by Michelle O’Mama.

One even gushed about grabbing her hand before being thwacked by an imposing man in a black suit and dark glasses.

“See? Right there! That’s her hand!” she explained of a blurry ipomea shot taken in extreme haste.

Swept up in the moment? Definitely.

But maybe that wave will carry new voters to the polling booth next month, and beyond. A whole new generation has been given the inspiration that anything is possible – even a first First Gentleman. And that could be the real change we’ve all been waiting for.

– Missy Votel