The Washington Post
January 3, 2013

Something is bugging Kyrsten Sinema. It tugged at her while she spoke to kids at the elementary school where she once served as a social worker. It rubbed her wrong while she told the pack of teachers and staff members trailing her into the parking lot afterward about the time she got pulled over by a police officer on her way home from a similar speech. He asked for her license. She had left it in the school office. “You’re a shambles,” she recalls the policeman telling her. “Officer, yes, I am!” she told him. Just then, it dawns on her what’s been bothering her all morning. “I didn’t zip my dress! I’m like, there’s something itching,” she says. “Oh, it’s my dress!” Now she’s digging under the ruffles of her jacket collar and waving over a photographer for help. Ah, relief. The whole thing cracks her up. Sinema likes to crack herself her up. She likes to crack everyone else up, too, even though this last tendency — the aspirationally comedic — is forever getting her in trouble. “I think there’s this pressure to get rid of the fun that makes us human,” Sinema says a few minutes later. “It hasn’t worked on me.”