EDITOR’S NOTE: Judy Bachrach writes for Vanity Fair, and is the creator of thecheckoutline.org, an online advice column for friends and relatives of the terminally ill.

Years and years ago, Bill Clinton and I had a thing. I thought he was wonderful, almost from the moment he stepped into the White House, and I don’t think I was wrong. Then.

Bill spoke with a devastating mixture of intimacy and authority. He had a way about him. When he played the sax, his lips pursed in a manner that seemed especially promising.

Hillary loved him. Most of my girlfriends loved him in a breezy, tangential way that allowed them to be snippy about his wife’s headbands and inelegant way of handling health care. Even certain Republicans who weren’t saddled with the name Newt found him amiable, a person they might do business with

And then there was me. I had dreams about Bill.

I had heard the rumors, of course. Who hadn’t? But on that issue, I tended to agree with my mother. “I don’t care if he sleeps with sheep,” said my mother – only she didn’t use the phrase “sleeps with.” Then she added: “In fact if he asked, I’d jump into bed with him this minute.”

My mother was in her late 70s when she delivered her opinion, and I remember shooting her a dirty look, not because I was shocked. I was thinking, Back off, lady.

I had met Bill on several occasions because I live and write in Washington, DC, and also Bill and I used to frequent the same modestly priced Israeli restaurant. The results of each new encounter were absolutely amazing. Every time our paths crossed, Bill would glance straight through me as though he were at a half-off sale, examining a particularly commonplace brand of wallpaper.

But that was OK, I figured. My invisibility was merely a sign of Bill’s superior taste. He was too intelligent and busy to waste time. There were exigent matters screaming for his attention.

Then, one night, my younger kid and I found ourselves in front of the television set. Sam was five at the time, with a noticeable lisp. He stared raptly as the nightly news moved in for a close-up of Bill. After a few minutes, he uttered his first absorbing insight into the nature of presidential power:

“I think heath telling the truth, Mom. I don’t think he had thekth with that woman, either.”

What can I say? I date my total disenchantment with Bill from that evening. Not because of what happened between Bill and that woman – I mean Miss Lewinsky. But because of what happened to my five-year-old.

I see now that Barack Obama’s people are asking Bill to promise to restrict his business, philanthropic and who-knows-what-else activities, in return for which they will likely name Hillary secretary of state. I wish they wouldn’t bother. I don’t care which of the Clinton retreads the Obamas pick, as long as it’s no one married to Bill. We all know what will happen.

As a close friend remarked this morning, “I broke up with Bill years ago. It’s over. I don’t want him in my face again.”

I know just what she means. And maybe even Bill knows what she means, because the guy takes these investigations into his private matters in stride.

“I’ll do whatever they want,” he says.

Which is — when you get down to it — always the problem with Bill.