WASHINGTON — Mitt Romney’s troubles bring to mind a
pop-psychology bestseller from a few years ago called “He’s Just
Not That Into You.” Romney has endured rejection all year. Even the
inadequate Herman Cain and the orange-haired reality star Donald
Trump at one time polled better among Republicans than camera-ready
Romney.

Then last Saturday, voters in South Carolina proved so very not
into Romney that they embraced a suitor so monumentally wrong that
his nomination would be an epic catastrophe on the scale of Barry
Goldwater’s in 1964. Phones were buzzing by Sunday morning as the
party establishment called around to raise money and raise a little
hell. How could Romney let this happen?

Word was that Mitt had to end his Mittness, to somehow make
himself into a regular, likable guy and even get mad in the
process. To Washington Republicans, Gingrich is a soft target, one
Romney should have put away two surges ago. But political
personality changes are risky, like giving up a workable two-handed
backhand before you’ve adapted to a one-handed version. Romney is
known to be frugal and to relate better to appliances than people,
but a trip to the laundry room of his hotel with a packet of Tide,
a camera and a son at his side to tweet about it was so obviously
staged that it invited ridicule. (Did the machine take fifties?)
Romney must stay, for better and worse, Romney.

It’s not hard to understand why South Carolina fell hard for a
swashbuckling blowhard like Gingrich. The state is a hotbed of the
tea party (one of its founding fathers is homegrown Republican Sen.
Jim DeMint), and it’s ground zero for a hefty helping of
resentment. Having grudgingly backed John McCain in 2008 only to
see him get whomped by Barack Obama, South Carolina Republicans
weren’t in the mood for a “Massachusetts moderate.”

The home of Fort Sumter knows something about self-destructive
impulses. Gingrich had them at “Hello,” or at least at “No,” the
word that began last week’s debate tirade against CNN moderator
John King, who had asked Gingrich if he wanted to address his
second wife’s allegation that Gingrich had sought an open marriage.
Oh, did he. Having stoked resentment of the news media for more
than four decades, Republican leaders can’t fault Gingrich for
perfecting the party’s game. His defiance thrilled the Republican
base, which proceeded to send a message to the party elite about
just who’s electable and who isn’t.

In Florida, which is more diverse and less ideological than
South Carolina, cooler heads could prevail if Romney can exploit
his advantage in minions and millions. He has had the airwaves
largely to himself for weeks, accompanied by a superior
organization. Romney’s campaign is in attack mode now — a sign that
the campaign shares the Washington insiders’ anxiety.

During Monday’s debate, Romney calmly defended his career at
Bain Capital, and on Tuesday, he released his 2010 taxes. (He is
rich — surprise! — and paid an effective federal tax rate of 13.9
percent, which will surely be grist for the general election if
Romney makes it there.)

Romney put Gingrich on the defensive for the first time in
weeks, defining him as a pure influence peddler whose clients paid
him to advance policies, including the Medicare prescription drug
benefit, that padded their bottom lines. Soon after recounting how
Gingrich “resigned in disgrace” from the House of Representatives,
however, Romney was gently referring to Gingrich’s “record of great
distress.” He’s no Jack the Ripper.

Gingrich is. Millions of female voters will view Gingrich not
only as a serial adulterer, for which betrayal is just the floor,
but also as an especially cruel one. On a young congressman’s
salary, he claimed he couldn’t afford child support. He had a
six-year extramarital affair with a House staff member half his age
while he was prosecuting President Bill Clinton for having an
affair with an intern half his age. He’s written novels that would
embarrass Danielle Steel. I will make a Romney-size bet that, even
in an economy that favors a challenger, Callista Gingrich will
never be first lady.

Romney might do his campaign — and himself — a favor by spending
time with some people who are suffering, many of them conservative
Republicans. They’re everywhere in Florida, where unemployment is
9.9 percent and home foreclosures are rampant. Maybe he could visit
schools where homeless children valiantly make it to class. He
could meet parents who are ashamed in front of their kids, for whom
they still hope to make a better life. Few envy his success; they
could use his support. Maybe if he broke out of his comfort zone
and got to know a few, the experience would help transform Mitt
Romney into a man who could understand, and lead, them.

Margaret Carlson is a Bloomberg View columnist.