A Most Forgettable Inaugural: The Night I Was Set to Own the City
Too Old for This Sh*t: How to Take Your Life Back from an Ageist Society
Unstoppable meets immovable
Dear Reader: Due to the need for humor I decided to repost this one as public. A piece for paid subscribers is coming out shortly.
Forty-eight years ago, the weekend before the Inaugural of Jimmy Carter, I was the baddest second lieutenant in the history of the Army.
At least I thought so. I was about to march in the Inaugural parade as the assigned aide to Bardyl Tirana, who was at the time a Director for Presidential Inaugural in the White House. I was escorting Tirana and his family down Pennsylvania Avenue.
Me. Some nobody butter bar.
The world was my oyster. I OWNED Washington DC.
Of course I did.
I was 23, a newly-minted officer. My three-star general sponsor had made sure that my career in the Army was going to be amazing. I was utterly full of myself and all the hubris that being that young and that close to absolute power will do to the impressionable and deeply insecure.
I was both. At that moment, with one more weekend to go, I was going to march powerful people down Pennsylvania and attend all three Inaugural balls.
Twenty-three. Invincible. On my way, get out of the way.
In 1976 I had been a second lieutenant for less than a year. General Robert Yerks had been my sponsor to Officer’s Candidate School when I was still enlisted. Right afterwards, I’d gotten assigned to Fort Belvoir, VA, just down the highway from DC.
I was minding my own business trying to figure out the ropes when I got the orders: I’d been assigned to the Carter Inaugural, responsible for all the military members who were invited. I was to head up protocol for all twelve hundred military members and was a liaison to the White House.
Let’s talk about that.
I was a butter bar, didn’t know shit about anything. The Inaugural job was slated for a lieutenant colonel, someone with considerably more experience and know-how than I had.
I had just been handed the assignment of a lifetime. I was given a desk, a phone, and a list of twelve hundred people from every service. The most powerful, influential officers and senior enlisted officers from every branch.
My job was to get them invited, get them tickets, navigate the brutal politics of rank and privilege (the list included Omar Bradley, the sole five-star on the list) and get all those folks to town safely.
I would deal with demanding, picky wives and partners, personal assistants who wanted what couldn’t be delivered. I had zero rank, ultimate responsibility. A single mistake would tank my career.
A desk. A dial phone. No computer. No power.
Holy shit Batman.
When a three-star general gives you orders, you jump.
There followed several months of increasingly stressful 20-hour days, leaving before dawn for the long drive to the old military billets where our committee worked. I streaked back home past midnight, night after night, overwhelmed by the enormity of the job and the commitment to get every single detail right.
No days off.
I lived on Vivarin and No-doz tablets and the incredible buzz that proximity to power affords.
Rubbed shoulders with the mighty. Made friends with other up-and-coming young Turks, arrogant assholes like myself.
The day of the Inaugural, I walked the Tirana family down Pennsylvania and got them successfully to their post-parade location. It was bitterly cold, 28 damp degrees, at noon.
Then I rushed back to our shared building where a handsome young man named Larry- his last name escapes me- shared an office with me as the civilian Inaugural Co-chair. He’d been key to the campaign and nabbed that role as a payoff.
I changed into my turquoise gown, having been given permission to wear civilian clothing to the ball, layered on makeup and sauntered into Larry’s side of our office.
On top of the world. Ready to knock ‘em dead.
I’d been averaging two to three hours of sleep a night, exacerbated by the long commute. We laughed about all the hard work. It had paid off. All the folks we were responsible for were in town, happy, eager to meet the new President and First Lady.
Tonight we would stride in like winners to each ball. Cher, John and Yoko Lennon, oh my god. The people we would meet. The people we would impress.
Both of us were unaware of how the weather would snarl DC traffic into Gordian knots. Right then, we were royalty. Royalty operating on fumes, but royalty.
I would dance with important men. Meet an eligible one. We’d fall in love. I’d be squired around on the arm of a Washington big-wig, living the life. I’d be important. Powerful. I had it all figured out.
Larry grinned, fist-bumped me and headed out to change into his tuxedo. Snow began falling. I leaned back, savoring the moment.
Second lieutenant Julia Hubbel, about to head out to three Presidential Inaugural balls. Twenty-three years old. On my way to the top. Unstoppable.
January 21st broke foggy and dim, like most Washington winter mornings. I struggled to open my eyes against the crust and makeup that had cemented them shut.
I was draped halfway across a leather couch. My head had been hanging off the couch for hours and my neck was complaining loudly.
A broad pool of drool spread out on the floor, just under my head.
Classy.
As the brain fog cleared, I looked around. I was still in Larry’s office. My jeweled purse, holding tickets to each ball, was on the floor where I’d left it.
My drool had left a dark river in the rich leather.
Shit.
I had slept through what could well have been the most extraordinary night of my young life.
Well, shit again. Shit shit shit shit.
I was too tired in that moment to process much more than I probably needed to get back to my bachelor officer’s quarters before someone reported me missing.
D.C. was remarkably quiet as I drove home, still in my gown and heels, back to my officer’s quarters on Fort Belvoir. Too tired to be deflated, but awake enough to recognize that a moment had passed.
THE moment had passed. I just didn’t know it at the time.
I remember thinking that I’d have another shot, there would be other Inaugurals.
Like the great Dan Marino, one of the greatest quarterbacks of his generation. He’d be back to the Superbowl, right? Of course he would. After all, he was DAN MARINO.
Retired without a ring.
But back then,
I was unstoppable, right? The hubris of youth, inexperience and hope.
It would be years before I realized how funny this was. Longer before I appreciated, as age often grants us, the realization that there would never be another Inauguration. Another ball.
After sleeping the sleep of the dead the rest of that day and night, on January 23rd I was at the White House, slightly less comatose, ushering in the military glitterati to meet the Carters.
I was the last person in the last line in the last reception at the White House. Jimmy and Rosalyn, their hands crushed to mush by that point, were gracious and grateful right to the end.
I have a photo. It’s a shot of my backside, crisp dress blues, the Carters smiling at me. I was just some unrecognizable female officer, but I knew it was my butt.
That was the end of any meteoric rise to power and prestige in the military or anywhere else. Probably a very good thing for everyone involved, especially me. Oh, well, and anyone else who might have had to deal with a deeply insecure young officer who desperately needed external validation through proximity to power.
Fate passes us by. Sometimes it’s a stroke of good luck that she does.
I did, however, end up with one of my favorite stories of all time.
The night that I was poised to “own” DC, and I slept right through it.
Thank god I did.
Let’s play.
Too funny! Of course, sometimes the best thing we can do is sleep through all the craziness and just be ourselves. Great story.