“Sisterhood of the traveling pantsuits” is how Hillary Clinton put it. And with those simple words, the peculiar misery haunting a certain slice of my entire professional life flashed before my eyes.
First let me set the scene: I got to Denver late after getting up at four in the morning to catch the plane here. My hotel is, as it turns out, not actually in Denver, but in the next suburb over. This means I have to take a shuttle bus and light rail or else a $70 cab ride, while the driver tries to figure out which roads into town haven’t been blocked off. Once at the convention center, you still have to stand in line for an hour or so to get through perimeter security, and then you walk for miles and miles on the indoor-outdoor concrete surfaces with which all of Denver is seemingly paved.
What I mean is, that if you’ve worn the wrong shoes you don’t just pop back to your room to change. And if you’ve worn long pants and a snappy little power jacket with a silk lining that is slicked to your skin in the blistering heat, you don’t dare take it off, because you’re middle-aged and a little worried about bra straps.
Read the full report here.
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