A funny thing happened on the way to the Democratic presidential nomination: I developed a bit of a crush on Hillary Clinton.
Not a full-on, lovey-dovey crush, but an admiration for Clinton that I never thought was possible.
My conservative friends will want to wash my mouth out with whatever swill Hillary was tossing back at that working-class Pennsylvania bar a few weeks ago, but it’s true. She’s really grown on me.
It’s not the pantsuits. It certainly not her monotone speech pattern or her long, wonkish policy talks.
It’s the spunk. It’s the fact she actually campaigned, hard, in Puerto Rico of all places. It’s the never- say-die attitude.
I like that no one questions her toughness, the perennial knock on female candidates. And just when you think she’s John Wayne incarnate, ready to take a poke at someone, she gets all emotional and sob-sister on us.
Maybe she planned it as strategy, or maybe it just emanated from the strain of a long campaign, but she finally let us see her softer, more human side.
Heck, I even like the fact that I can’t figure out why she’s still running. Is it to weaken Barack Obama to the point he loses to John McCain and she can run in four years as the “I-told-you-so” candidate? Does she really think she has a chance? Or does she just have too much pride to pull out now after being dismissed by the punditry, her opponent and half of her party?
With all of this intrigue, the woman we thought we knew all too well is suddenly mysterious. Be still my heart.
Of course, she frequently gives me reasons to end my silly crush, such as the Clintonesque way she counts votes, saying she’s ahead in the popular vote. I suppose it depends on what your definition of “popular vote” is, eh, Hillary?
And then there’s the whole Bobby Kennedy didn’t get assassinated until June theory and the obligatory, almost forced looks of adoration she shoots at her husband on the stump. Ugh.
Any reminder of the Clinton family megalomania of the 1990s is a real turn-off.
Yet, as the campaign wore on, I found myself drawn to Hillary if for no other reason than the fact she can’t see anyone besides herself being president. There’s a certain amount of comfort in that confidence, after nearly eight years of an administration seemingly adrift.
The duties of the Oval Office won’t chew her up and spit her out like some Jimmy Carter retread.
Truth be told, I also think part of my newfound affection stems from the estrogen level in my household. I’m outnumbered by females, three to one.
I often tell my 6-year-old how blessed she is to live in a country where she can be anything she wants to be. I truly want her to believe it, because most days I believe it, too.
Not too long ago, she was singing along to a “Hannah Montana” song in the car: “Who says? Who says I can’t be president?”
I turned to my wife and, only half-jokingly, said, “Well, she can run for president anyway . . . .”
Assuming Hillary’s campaign will come to an end soon — and yes, I realize that’s quite an assumption — I hope history remembers it for how she obliterated the traditional barriers that have stood in the way of other women becoming president.
No one should question whether a woman is tough enough or competent enough to be president.
Hillary weathered enough sexism on the campaign trail that it should empower an entire generation of young women to someday sing with some certainty, “Who says I can’t be president?”
Even if Hillary Clinton never makes it to the White House, I’ll tell my daughters about how she blazed the trail.
Editorial page editor Dan Haley can be reached at dhaley@denverpost.com.
