In 2005 I shook hands with Bill Clinton at Crobar Nightclub in NYC for a photograph. I have lived a life in which I have met many celebrities, demi gods and people who believe they run the planet. So I expected gravity. I expected Presidential Energy. A man whose shadow would cover the sun.

Instead I got a guy who was surprisingly small. Like someone had washed him on hot and let him tumble dry too long. His hands were tiny. Not delicate. Just small. Also freezing cold. Ice cube cold. Morgue cold. I have cold hands too, so I get it, but there was something strange about it. Like he had spent too long inside a walk-in freezer, holding pints of ice cream, instead of leading the free world.

We took a photo I never received. This is fine. Perhaps the universe deleted it out of mercy. After the photo, I tried to joke with him. I suggested he might want gloves or maybe mittens for those chilly presidential paws. He stared me dead in the eyes and did not smile. Not a twitch. Not a flicker. In that silent moment, I understood I was dealing with a man who had grown accustomed to oceans of praise and very few mitten jokes.

It was odd and awkward for me, yet in hindsight, not surprising. A man who once led the world. A man who spoke with kings and despots. A man the public literally kissed up to. Including, as we learned later, Donald Trump. Which is the funniest punchline of all. Two men who expected the world to kneel, and we discovered Trump knelt first.

And there I was. A young DJ Empress in her early 20s in a nightclub beside a former President, surrounded by very large Secret Service men. Freezing cold hands. Warmer heart. Making a mitten joke and receiving existential silence in return.

Bill was not amused. For years I was confused by our interaction. Now I am not confused at all.