Michelle, Mademoiselle, La Daphine

I don't care about the First Lady of the United States. It's not a real position; it's a dull euphemism for the President's wife, dating from a time when such politesse obscured the purely romantic role that women played in politics. We have to say something about the woman who sleeps with our Head of State, so we call her that.

So when Michelle Obama emits some gaffe, like never being proud of her country, I ignore it, because I refuse to pay any credence to her importance, ceremonial or otherwise. I don't care about her.

But even I find it hard to disagree that eight -- eight -- vacations betrays a certain apres moi le deluge mentality. Or, as Victor Davis Hanson puts it, suggests

that her prior angst arose not because millions were not able to share the lifestyles of the elite but that she herself had not yet quite partaken in the sort of life she felt she deserved — which she is now apparently enjoying to the fullest. The fact that her Costa del Sol trip coincides with hard times back in the states, comes on the heels of the Kerry yacht and the Clinton wedding, and clashes with her husband’s anti-wealthy rhetoric (e.g., “at some point you’ve made enough money”) makes it all the more weird, both for her adminstration’s equality-of-result politics and for the larger liberal narrative of talking truth to power.

It's one thing to be wealthy and powerful in a time when others struggle. It's another to be so after explicitly casting your lot with the struggling and against the grandees. It may be less tone-deafness than hypocrisy, but
I cannot help but wonder why one's forgiveness of such ostentatious displays is the more forgivable if one mouths the right platitudes.