Encounters with America's version of Royalty

When Michelle Obama Came to Lunch: In my dream scenario, entitled, “Michelle Obama Drops by for Lunch,” there are a few givens. I’m:

Clean;
Well-rested;
Impeccably dressed;
Well-versed in current events and prepared to deliver a handful of hilarious yet tasteful jokes on relevant topics; and
Ready to Dougie, if asked.

In reality, when Michelle came for lunch,

I hadn’t showered in two days;
I’d slept less than five hours each night for the previous three weeks, due to a recurring nightmare about burning risotto and disappearing pan handles;
I was in a carrot-spattered chef’s coat and oversized pants held up by a belt made of twisted Saran Wrap;
I hadn’t read a paper in weeks and felt comfortable conversing mainly about legumes; and
I’d spent the last week picking up heavy objects “properly,” according to a chiropractor, which required that I continually squat while sticking my butt out. As a result, I was unable to do a stiff-limbed waltz, let alone a shimmy.