Boys and fashion have never been my strong suit.  I much preferred the company of books and comfortable clothing that didn't itch.  Then I went off to college in the land of snow and ice.  Let's just say that a Florida wardrobe does not stand up well to a Michigan winter climate.  Add the fact that my mother's fashion sense was stuck in the fifties (remember the blue Bali bargain bras?) and my father had an abiding love of all things made from synthetic fabrics.  Yes, I was an A number one frump and didn't outgrow it until I was nearly thirty.

So, in 1977, when the Grand Rapids social event of the season rolled around, I was singularly ill-equipped, to say the least.  Anyone and everyone trekked downtown to see the Oratorio Society's performance of Handel's Messiah.  The classical music lover in me wanted to go, but the frumpy bookworm in me knew I would never be asked.  Until...

My suite mate, Laura, returned from the long Thanksgiving weekend in Chicago.  She was wearing a gorgeous camel cashmere overcoat.  "I love your coat!" I exclaimed as she spun around to model it to its full effect.  "Thanks," she replied.  "Lloyd got it off a garbage heap in Winnetka."  My mouth dropped open.  She laughed and said, "I thought you knew he worked on the garbage trucks.  He's always bringing home great stuff."  No, I didn't know that.  I only knew that her older brother, Lloyd, who bore a striking resemblance to a young Omar Sharif, was serious about his education and planned to go to law school.  In the meantime, while girls swooned over him and his classic MG incessantly, he spent all of his free time in the library studying - and apparently, hauling garbage on the weekends.  I had a new appreciation for his work ethic.

"Oh, by the way," Laura began offhandedly, "Lloyd has tickets to the Messiah and I know I'd be asleep after ten minutes.  I told him you would love to go.  Did you have plans for Saturday night?"  I'm fairly sure my mouth dropped open again.  "He wants to go with a female friend, not some stupid girl who will think he's going to propose marriage," Laura said.  "He'd like you to go with him.  He even picked up his new pinstripe suit this weekend.  Say you'll go - I'm tired of listening to him whine about stupid girls."

It was an offer I couldn't really refuse.  Nice boy - check.  No expectations - check.  A glorious performance of Handel's Messiah - check.  Then the frump in my head reminded me that I had nothing to wear.  Who cares? I thought.  It's the Messiah!

Saturday finally arrived and I wish I had a photo of me in all my ahem, sartorial splendor, to share.  I wore an completely wretched ivory knit maxi-dress (this was 1977 after all) with flutter sleeves and a red silk rose strategically placed to hide the low neckline, brown leather sandals with wooden heels (too weird, I know) and an unfortunate rust-colored trench coat that did its level best to hide that abomination of a dress.  I didn't really care.  I mean, it wasn't really a date.

The aforementioned Mr. Meyer showed up in the dorm lobby wearing a lovely navy, double-breasted pinstripe suit - looking like Omar Sharif playing a campy Hollywood gangster.  I had nothing to worry about; all eyes would be on him.  A true gentleman, he escorted me to his little MG, crammed me inside and slammed the door.  We were off to see the Messiah!

We chatted easily on the drive downtown; I asked him if he really brought home stuff from the garbage heaps of Chicago's tonier suburbs and found out it was true.  "The next time I find something cool, I'll bring it to you," he promised.  "Laura had to fight my mom for that coat!"  He told me that his scholarships didn't cover all his expenses and he made good money on the garbage truck.  "Too good to pass up and I know I'll laugh about it someday."  Like I said, nice boy.

Nearly at our destination, it was time to find a parking place.  While Lloyd concentrated on driving, I notice that people were pointing at us.  "Look at those people pointing at your car," I said.  "Guess there aren't many MGs around."  I began to wave back at people, like Queen Elizabeth acknowledging her subjects from a horse-drawn carriage.  That half-hearted little, I'm-screwing-in-a-light-bulb wave that she does so well.  People continued to point; I continued to wave.

My escort finally decided to drop me off near the door and park around the corner.  He started to get out of the car to open the door for me.  "Never mind," I said.  "I'll see you in a few minutes."  I got out of the car and gathered up my dress to step up onto the sidewalk.  It was in that horrifying moment that I discovered what all of those admiring people were pointing at: Lloyd had closed the hem of my dress in the car door.  The ivory fabric had dragged in every dirty snow puddle between campus and the civic center.  There was a wide swath of mud running at a jaunty angle up the side of my dress and try as it might, my unfortunate rust-colored trench coat could not even begin to cover it.

I wanted to cry, but for the first time in my life, I thought to myself: who really cares?  I don't know any of these people and I am never going to see them again.  What I'm wearing doesn't matter; what does matter is that I am here to enjoy a performance of Handel's Messiah.  And I did.

That evening, I took my seat next to a very nice young man and listened as joyful voices rang out in praise: "Unto us a Child is born; unto us a Son is given, and the government shall be upon His Shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace."

Merry Christmas!  And by the way, after winter break that year, Lloyd brought me a crazy rag doll he found on a garbage heap in Hinsdale.  Promise kept - like I said, nice boy.