The Gilded Standard

A law school classmate (okay, I think he eventually became my husband, and then my ex-husband) once attributed our collective tendency toward lackluster academic performance to the statistical theory of regression toward the mean.  Our self-deprecation became not only amusing but justified. An inevitable gravitation toward average -- to fight it would be pointless. 

Years later, I still lament my lifelong failure to live up to the potential that may have been bestowed upon me by my DNA, but I take comfort in the notion that "the mean" exercises its gravitational pull from both directions. For all I know, I have vastly overachieved. There are worse things than being average. 

Which means, I suppose, I should stop being offended about the low bar that has been set for our 45th president; after all, why hold him to a standard that would be unattainable by even the best among us? Fair enough. 

It's different though. The bar has been set so low for 45 that even an insect would have a hard time limbo-ing beneath it. He stuck to a script with only a few inane ad libs. So presidential. Footage of children writhing in agony before succumbing to death in their parent's arms had an impact on him. Such presidential compassion. Tomahawks launched, only a day or two after he initially reacted to the carnage in Syria by blaming his predecessor and revisiting his electoral win. So presidentially decisive. 

We are living in the new gilded age of paper thin gold plate, and we have become content to allow even the most minute glimmer of normalcy to gloss over the rotting insanity that lies beneath. We live in a world where seemingly intelligent people have suggested everything might be all right if he just stops tweeting. Yes, we are all, collectively, regressing toward the mean. 

But for 45, the mean would be a good thing, and still appears to be an insurmountable climb.