It’s the feeling you get in an earthquake.
It’s also the feeling you get when the unexpected happens, rocking your world metaphorically.
Like, when you, God’s Gift to the World, are comfortably leading your moral and intellectual inferiors in all the political polls — but suddenly find yourself trailing, while everyone runs off to worship a new goddess.
You’re rattled. And it shows.
For the first time in your charmed life, you don’t quite know how to meet the challenge coming from a political rival. Your opponent was an aging politician running a listless campaign. But then, out of the blue, he picked her as his running mate. Nobody saw that coming. She is young, attractive, upbeat, and appealing, just as you are. But her attacks on you draw blood, because with rapier sarcasm and good-natured humor, she expertly targets the chinks in your armor. She wows everyone — and, in the process, she makes your own choice of a running mate seem dull and unimaginative.
You suddenly realize everyone is focusing on — and that you are being hurt by — your opponent’s vice-presidential candidate. She’s getting all the media coverage now, not you. Overnight, she has stolen your celebrity status — and your campaign theme of “change,” to boot. Of all things, you never expected that.
So, you’re rattled.
Irked by this crude upstart, who lacks all your education, grace, and stylistic sophistication, you go on the offensive. But for reasons you can’t quite grasp, your dismissive attacks backfire badly, bringing her sympathy instead of scorn. Meanwhile, your supporters, including those in the media, are so viciously personal and over-the-top in their own assaults on her that they only make matters worse. There is a thunderous national backlash; millions of your targeted voters start switching sides. The daily polls bring news that is increasingly alarming.
You and your advisers have to retreat, regroup, and rethink this whole thing.
Finding yourself on the defensive, you become over-cautious. You stammer a lot more. You start making embarrassing slips of the tongue. These cause you to become the butt of mocking jokes — worst of all, on late-night TV. You know that’s the kiss of political death.
Which makes you even more rattled. Self-consciousness feeds on itself. Soon, everything you say seems either off-point or anemic or excessive. You stammer even more, because you’re afraid of another excruciating verbal gaffe. Frustrated that nothing seems to be working, you stop smiling so much and try to suppress that growing edge in your voice. In fact, sometimes you lose your vaunted Cool and start to sound downright angry. The testiness makes you seem weak and whiny — not good when you’re trying to project “Presidential.” By contrast, your opponents are upbeat, energized, relaxed, confident. They are having fun. You aren’t.
People in the media comment about all this.
Which makes you even more rattled. You start to doubt yourself. How the hell can this be happening to me? How the hell can I be losing to these morons? Even your friends, alarmed that their Savior seems to be coming unglued, start to pile on with criticism, offering contradictory advice. You realize that you are losing allies and voters. You begin to panic, not knowing which way to turn, who to listen to, which talking points to use. Your messages shift from day to day as you look for one that will have traction and help you regain your balance.
People in the media comment about all this, too.
During sleepless nights, as you toss and turn, you remember the two candidates of your party who preceded you, and how their campaigns — once so similarly positioned for victory, so similarly came unhinged. You suddenly feel that you’re trapped in a vicious cycle, repeating all their mistakes; but somehow, you can’t stop yourself from doing so.
You start to worry about your upcoming debates against your elderly rival, no longer so sure that you can beat him. You worry that you’ll stammer too much, that you’ll sweat, that you’ll utter one of those fatal gaffes. And you’re terrified at the prospect of your running mate’s debate against the upstart. He’s looking nervous, too, these days, and you know how prone he is to foot-in-mouth disease.
It’s mid-September. Your world, once so stable, is shaking and crumbling around you.
And you’re rattled.
It’s also the feeling you get when the unexpected happens, rocking your world metaphorically.
Like, when you, God’s Gift to the World, are comfortably leading your moral and intellectual inferiors in all the political polls — but suddenly find yourself trailing, while everyone runs off to worship a new goddess.
You’re rattled. And it shows.
For the first time in your charmed life, you don’t quite know how to meet the challenge coming from a political rival. Your opponent was an aging politician running a listless campaign. But then, out of the blue, he picked her as his running mate. Nobody saw that coming. She is young, attractive, upbeat, and appealing, just as you are. But her attacks on you draw blood, because with rapier sarcasm and good-natured humor, she expertly targets the chinks in your armor. She wows everyone — and, in the process, she makes your own choice of a running mate seem dull and unimaginative.
You suddenly realize everyone is focusing on — and that you are being hurt by — your opponent’s vice-presidential candidate. She’s getting all the media coverage now, not you. Overnight, she has stolen your celebrity status — and your campaign theme of “change,” to boot. Of all things, you never expected that.
So, you’re rattled.
Irked by this crude upstart, who lacks all your education, grace, and stylistic sophistication, you go on the offensive. But for reasons you can’t quite grasp, your dismissive attacks backfire badly, bringing her sympathy instead of scorn. Meanwhile, your supporters, including those in the media, are so viciously personal and over-the-top in their own assaults on her that they only make matters worse. There is a thunderous national backlash; millions of your targeted voters start switching sides. The daily polls bring news that is increasingly alarming.
You and your advisers have to retreat, regroup, and rethink this whole thing.
Finding yourself on the defensive, you become over-cautious. You stammer a lot more. You start making embarrassing slips of the tongue. These cause you to become the butt of mocking jokes — worst of all, on late-night TV. You know that’s the kiss of political death.
Which makes you even more rattled. Self-consciousness feeds on itself. Soon, everything you say seems either off-point or anemic or excessive. You stammer even more, because you’re afraid of another excruciating verbal gaffe. Frustrated that nothing seems to be working, you stop smiling so much and try to suppress that growing edge in your voice. In fact, sometimes you lose your vaunted Cool and start to sound downright angry. The testiness makes you seem weak and whiny — not good when you’re trying to project “Presidential.” By contrast, your opponents are upbeat, energized, relaxed, confident. They are having fun. You aren’t.
People in the media comment about all this.
Which makes you even more rattled. You start to doubt yourself. How the hell can this be happening to me? How the hell can I be losing to these morons? Even your friends, alarmed that their Savior seems to be coming unglued, start to pile on with criticism, offering contradictory advice. You realize that you are losing allies and voters. You begin to panic, not knowing which way to turn, who to listen to, which talking points to use. Your messages shift from day to day as you look for one that will have traction and help you regain your balance.
People in the media comment about all this, too.
During sleepless nights, as you toss and turn, you remember the two candidates of your party who preceded you, and how their campaigns — once so similarly positioned for victory, so similarly came unhinged. You suddenly feel that you’re trapped in a vicious cycle, repeating all their mistakes; but somehow, you can’t stop yourself from doing so.
You start to worry about your upcoming debates against your elderly rival, no longer so sure that you can beat him. You worry that you’ll stammer too much, that you’ll sweat, that you’ll utter one of those fatal gaffes. And you’re terrified at the prospect of your running mate’s debate against the upstart. He’s looking nervous, too, these days, and you know how prone he is to foot-in-mouth disease.
It’s mid-September. Your world, once so stable, is shaking and crumbling around you.
And you’re rattled.
