Washington DC was like putting on that blue turtleneck for the very first time. The one I found in Philly for five dollars at the army surplus store. The one with rough texture stretching so nicely firmly across my torso when pulled snuggly down, reaching almost to the middle of my thighs. In June or in San Diego (and aren’t they the same thing? - like September and San Francisco or late August and Las Vegas) that blue turtleneck would have surely become a dress to me. But certainly not in DC.

So cold the snow protested, refusing to fall. So dry my lips shriveled like salty nightcralwers. My eyes teared in pain, and for the moisture in my lungs’ sake, I tried not to breathe at all. That blue turtleneck won the primary suddenly.

On the bitter sidewalk I strutted swaggered sashayed sauntered, proud pony pranced, and looked every hurried-government-working-passer-by flirtatiously in the eye, as often one does when they decide the exact turtleneck they are wearing has officially become their favorite, and mostly - they think they look cute.

But cute perhaps I was not at 11a.m., three hours before I usually rise – in the morning, the world feels as if its inflicting itself upon me, and under covers I try to stay until the bully goes away. “Place your jacket on the belt and step through the detector”; I consented only for my turtleneck’s display. I could not disguise I was sleep deprived and quite unimpressed at such an hour by these straight line, up tight, pleated pants spectacles of power. Who said I had a problem with authority?

But to conform, we ten STOMPers who had risen by alarm tried, oh, sincerely how tried we. For our first time in DC, to have an arranged private viewing of our Nation’s Capitol was an honor even overwhelmed in sleep.

So into the Senator’s office we toppled and made a pile of our coats in the corner, personally escorted by a down-to-earth intern through the elaborate marble corridors. Under ceilings precisely painted with censored scenes of our country’s legacy, through legislature's chambers where votes are cast on same-sex marriage and the right to privacy. And gradually it seemed to me that the countless towering bronze statues of our country’s forefathers doing their best I-Discovered-Civilization-and-All-Things-Peanut-Butter-and-Jelly vogue were becoming progressively more absurd in pomposity. So that eventually in the greatest of halls, built so whispers would do just fine, I raised my chin, swelled my breast, dropped my pants and posed for a statue of my own. The security guard, you could say, paid for our taxi home.

Washington DC was like sporting that blue turtleneck all special day, making eyes at every stranger coming your way, then glancing in a mirror only too late – you’ve been inside out and backwards the whole damn time. How ‘bout a pose for your statue now, Little Miss Sunshine?

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