Grace watched me get dressed.  It was a skirt day, and I was yanking on some tights.

“I don’t understand why people like tights,” she said. “Uncomfortable.”

“They’re okay.” I shrugged.

Her face was scrunched with doubt.

“I could never be president,” Grace declared, almost as if someone had just that moment asked her to seek her party’s nomination.

“Uh, sure you could.”

“No, I couldn’t.  Because I hate tights.”

I gave her my best what-are-you-talking-about look.

“And women presidents have to wear skirts,” she retorted.

I protested.  “You could wear pants!”

Grace, only eight years old, had the last word: “No, only skirts.”

(Ah, the power of the image, and unwritten rules.)

—-

P.S.  Go, Obama! You have my vote. Still, I miss you, Hillary. You would have worn pants, as Ms. President. I’m sure of it.