On a bench outside Pizza Bob’s, two ancients (Class of ’74), watched, fascinated, a stream of U-M students cutting out early from the season’s first football game. Lots of maize and blue, of course, but more specific fashion codes also ruled.
In quick succession, three women passed wearing identical yellow mini-dresses and cowboy boots. “A sorority?” my partner wondered. Several men, and one woman, hurried by in bib overalls, some with one shoulder strap jauntily unclipped. (A web search found “game day bibs” selling for $69.99)
These were cool-looking kids, especially the women—great skin, well-cut hair, perfect white teeth. “Do they care about politics at all?” I asked disapprovingly. “Or just sorority rush?” The Greek system had been at its nadir fifty years ago. Pointing to Chabad House, my partner recalled touring it after the fraternity folded. Squatters had gotten in and built fires on the parquet floors. Now a banner on a former rooming house across the street announced that a new frat had taken up residence.
“They are just interested in having fun,” I said resentfully. “Not like us.”
“They’re normal,” my partner said. “We were the aberration.”
But Pizza Bob’s still makes pizza on whole-wheat crusts. We finished ours and set out on foot toward home.
As we neared the Union, a police car drove slowly past. Were the annual party patrols rolling already, we wondered?
The officer lowered his window. “You two are the best-looking couple around!” he yelled.
“Thanks!” my partner yelled back. We headed home with a spring in our step.