As the hour got late, however, I could feel myself starting to sag.
The best part of the evening was supposed to be what came last—a private
party being held for a couple hundred of our friends back at the White House. It
was there that we’d finally be able to let down, have some champagne, and stop
worrying about how we appeared. For sure, I’d be taking off my shoes.
It was close to 2:00 a.m. by the time we got ourselves there. Barack and I
walked across the marble floors leading to the East Room to find the party in full
swing, drinks flowing and elegantly dressed people swirling beneath the sparkling
chandeliers. Wynton Marsalis and his band were playing jazz on a small stage at
the back of the room. I saw friends from nearly every phase of my life—
Princeton friends, Harvard friends, Chicago friends, Robinsons and Shieldses
galore. These were the people I wanted to laugh with, to say, How in holy hell did
we all get here?
But I was done. I’d hit a final fence line. I was also thinking ahead, knowing
that the next morning—really just a matter of hours from now—we’d be going
to the National Prayer Service and after that we’d stand and greet two hundred
members of the public who were coming to visit the White House. Barack
looked at me, reading my thoughts. “You don’t need to do this,” he said. “It’s
okay.”
Partygoers were moving toward me now, eager to interact. Here came a
donor. Here was the mayor of a big city. “Michelle! Michelle!” people were
calling. I was so exhausted I thought I might cry.
As Barack stepped over the threshold and got promptly sucked into the
room, I froze for a split second, then pivoted and fled. I had no energy left to
verbalize some First Lady–like excuse or even wave to my friends. I just walked
quickly away over the thick red carpet, ignoring the agents who trailed behind
me, ignoring everything as I found the elevator to the residence and took myself
there—down an unfamiliar hallway and into an unfamiliar room, out of my shoes
and out of my gown and into our strange new bed.