Please trust me when I tell you I can be rather articulate. Eloquent, even.
But put me one-on-one with a famous person, and I get nervous. And when I get nervous, I turn into a pile of awkward.
President Bill Clinton came to visit my college, Bryn Mawr, my freshman year, in 1993. A bunch of us serious minded 19-year-old female scholars who wanted to meet him were cordoned off into our own area, which my savvy friend Amanda from Washington D.C. wryly dubbed the “Presidential Petting Zoo.” (Perhaps she knew something the rest of us didn’t, yet.)