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Three of us shivered in the locker room after leaving the Arthritis Warm Water Aerobics pool. All well past Medicare enrollment age, white women who had just carried on a casual conversation moments before about the details of our lives, our aches. I come regularly and many recognize me as the woman who reads a lot of articles about politics on the computer. The one with a BFA from a fine Big Ten University, suddenly asked me whether I thought Hillary was going to win. I said that it certainly looked less likely after North Carolina and Indiana. They said she should be allowed to continue. I agreed. It was not for me to decide. But the national Democrats were beginning to wonder what she thought she could do.I, not displaying my personal preferences in this long ordeal, finally realized I needed to say something soothing and sisterly. I acknowledged all they brought up about her best attributes, and opined that she had been encouraged in her struggle by her base. Her base. Older white women. The BFA wondered whether education was in that base. I thought it sounded soothing to say any one with high school degrees. The whole thing began to sound like the "old white men" rants, with a twist. A classic battle of the sexes, I thought, which came to my conscience as a little girl with a radio program by the same name.
My ride would be there shortly and I needed to leave on a note of reality. Earnestly, I mentioned that one thing making it difficult for Hillary was money. Just that morning the news described how she had to borrow more of her own. They had that buttoned down. What was the difference? They had all that money they paid income tax on. But, I said, it was her money. Instant response: Well, borrow some more, because Bill had more and besides when he died it would all be hers anyhow. I picked up my tote bag and wished them a nice weekend–with thoughts of Freud's "castration complex" running through my head.
