My issue with Dubya's supreme court nominee Harriet Miers isn't that there must be at least ten thousand -- no exaggeration intended -- other people more qualified than she for the job.
It isn't that we have no way to judge her relevant experience and requisite skills except to embrace the president's ringing endorsement -- "I've known her for ten years."
It isn't that I have a problem with yet another example of cronyism in this administration, which, to me, is the bureaucratic equivalent of having sex with a close relative.
It isn't that Ms. Miers has never married or had children so her life skills outside the law are essentially null and void.
It isn't that the spelling of her name raises questions about how recently her family was able to read and write.
It isn't that Ms. Miers wears a hairdo and chooses clothes last seen on Mamie Eisenhower in the fifties.
It isn't that she's sixty years old, an advanced age to some of you, but sadly, a year or so younger than I am.
No, it isn't that any one of these things is enough to shake the foundation of jurisprudence to its core, like some pundits are predicting.
For me, the most unsettling issue surrounding the nominee is that there is a real possibility this tough but tiny lawyer with the tenacity of a bulldog and the admiration of the president, this throwback to the previous century who makes no apologies for her retro style, this unmarried, born again Texan with the misspelled last name is. . . a. . . virgin.