THERE was a time — or so the older generation insists — when politicians spoke their minds. They were bold, occasionally reckless, sometimes gloriously wrong. But at least you knew where they stood.
Now, the only thing standing is the poker face.
Real honesty left the building three presidents ago, probably hitching a ride with decency to somewhere less exhausting — perhaps a quiet province where statements don't require legal review.
It reminds me of Samantha’s famous line in Sex and the City: “The estrogen has left the building.” Except in this case, it isn't estrogen that packed up. It's honesty. Integrity. Maybe even the courage to be inconvenient.
I stopped watching political symposiums the way one stops watching reruns — not out of courage, but fatigue. It's a talent show for controlled sincerity. Every answer arrives pre-washed, ironed, and folded by a public relations team with trust issues. When a question wanders off-script, you can almost hear the collective tightening of jawlines behind the podium.
No one says what they truly think. Not because they lack opinions. But because opinions are now liabilities. Every word must survive the gauntlet of donors, polling data, trending of hashtags, and tomorrow’s headlines.
And so we are handed statements so curated they feel museum-ready — glass-encased, impossible to touch.
We, of course, are not blameless. We demand authenticity but punish deviation. We say we want “real talk,” then recoil at real consequences. A single unscripted pause can cost more than a bad policy ever did.
Honesty didn't leave out of boredom. It left because it wasn't profitable.
Then there are the veterans — once formidable figures who refuse to exit the stage. They cling to power the way a fading celebrity clings to flattering lighting. Much like an estrogen-deprived woman confronting biological transition, they battle decline with denial: the irritability, the nostalgia, the insistence that things were better “in my time.”
The difference, of course, is that one is managing hormones. The other is managing a nation.
Aging is natural. But political menopause — the refusal to step aside when relevance has clearly begun its farewell tour — is less a medical condition than a moral one.
What remains is a political culture so cautious it borders on antiseptic. Interviews resemble HR consultations. Debates feel like moderated therapy sessions where everyone agrees to use ”I” statements. Campaign speeches carry the emotional range of a weather forecast.
And yet, they all claim to be “for the people.”
The people — that mythical demographic invoked to justify everything from budget allocations to ego preservation. The people, apparently, are always grateful. Always supportive. Always conveniently aligned.
Meanwhile, honesty sits somewhere offstage, sipping something strong with decency, watching the spectacle and declining to re-enter.
So when a politician promises transparency, don't expect a window.
Expect a mirror — angled just enough for you to see exactly what they want you to.
Clarity is optional. Presentation is not.
And in politics, presentation never resigns.
Still brewing thoughts — no sugarcoating, just stories steeped in truth.
