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Dwelling on Bush
Yesterday was surreal. I have to confess that I cried like a schoolgirl election night. I wasn't expecting that level of despair at all - it just came up and grabbed me by the diaphragm and squeezed until I was bawling.

When I got to work, all puffy eyed and miserable, there was a surreal conflation of events: Take Your Kids To Work Day and the Lingerie fashion show for the Fashion station.

I went into the bathroom and saw some anorexic chick flat-ironing her hair and I wanted to scream: Don't you understand what bad shape this world is in right now with four more years of Bush? How can you flat-iron your hair? Rend your garments!

Then I went into the bathroom stall and wept.

Around lunch, I saw the concession speech on the muted tv by my desk. I tried to look away. Then a male co-worker sent me this email:
"The models' route to the change room runs right by my desk...The lingerie is nice. But it's the half-naked running in high heels (while trying not to fall out of your clothes, AND pretending that all this is normal) that's beginning to creep me out."

I wrote back: "I wish that was the only Bush we had to pretend to ignore."

So basically it was a surreal, emotional day in the building, coiffed and waxed models teetering in heels and lace and everyone, in their own way, trying not to dwell on Bush.

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