Once, there was a young girl, somewhere in post-communist Europe. She had only one wish, and someone told her that – if she’d only take enough off her clothes, and get lost of as much as possible that God had given her – she’d achieve everything she wanted. But probably not in this small, cold country that she called “home”. So this young girl packed her suitcase (or something else in which you could put as many bikini as wanted) and moved on. First, to a country where they rolled the “r” so much (like in these movies about World War Two). [Not that she noticed anyway; she only “talked” to “photographers” anyway.] Then, one day, she made her first steps in a country that was still united at that time. She worked hard, and wore less. And one day, she suddenly spoke to a huge audience; and wondered afterwards what had gone wrong. Didn’t she prepare all of her sentences with Google, and who was this “Michelle Obama”?! But she moved on. There was so much to give her comfort. It didn’t matter that there were all these skinny, smart blondes around her. Because she was now First Lady. When she was alone – her husband in his bathroom, colouring his hair; her son sleeping (again) – she spoke these words very slowly out loud. First Lady. Never mind her accent was so strong that nobody knew which language she spoke. And then there was the Day of all Days. She danced with her husband (no, it will be my way that we’ll live), wore a beautiful dress (I wanted Ralph Lauren anyway, not any of these younger designers) and listen to the crowd, cheering to her (yes, they cheered, for her!). She now lived the life that she had always dreamt of (and wasn’t it beautiful to wear dresses instead of nothing; and to think of nothing instead of …mmm..nothing?!). Yes, she was the most perfect First Lady of all times.