In the far-away days when I rode Tri-Met to work (probably sometime this summer), I once found myself seated by a girl of about my age. I had been in a hurry to get to work that morning, and so I had pulled on a sundress, handed down from my sister. The sundress in question was one of a series of products of my sister’s love of celestial fabric. This one featured yellow moons and stars burnished with bright orange and red, cavorting around a royal blue sky with several florid cupids and puckish men in the moon. The cut of the dress makes me look about 9 years old, my hair was pulled back in a lazy half-back, and I much doubt I had had the time or inclination to busy myself with cosmetics that morning. My legs were bare, and probably a few days past a shaving.

The girl who sat down beside me was a vision. I do not pretend that I approve of monochromatic wardrobes, so I did not covet her outfit—but she was very well put together. She was a blonde with lightly tanned skin, wearing a pair of jeans with a white hibiscus print on a beige background, a beige crop-top, and platform sandals of a fibrous description. As I’ve said, this stuff is not my style, and I wondered that wearing nylons with platform slide-sandals hadn’t claimed her life ere this; but she looked good, and I was suddenly keenly aware that this girl had put a lot more time into what she was wearing shopping than I had into presenting a professional appearance at my job. I was suddenly very embarassed of my sundress (ironically, all the extreme low-maintenance clothes I have are gaudy and noticable) and buried myself in my book. A few stops later, she got up to go, and bent over to say to me, without a trace of sarcasm, “I adore your dress.”

I grinned, and decided not to worry so much.