I am reading a novel by someone I used to know. Not very well; Diana was a grad student when I was an undergrad: I admired her from afar. She was tall, blond, slim, and (to me) grownup and glamorous. Her boyfriend--just as tall, slim, and handsome--was he a grad student in a different department?--added to the glamor.
She was the first person I ever saw wear black stirrup pants. I remember asking her where she got them, and her bemusement at my admiration. Black stirrup pants became my uniform (under a white dress shirt) for at least a handful of years. (My husband periodically evinces nostalgia for them: "You used to always wear stirrup pants. What happened?") I remember mean-spirited voices criticizing her work as beautiful, but too opaque, difficult. She is probably the person I most wanted to be when I was 19 or 20.
I never did become her, though. Never that slim, nor that alluring, and nobody ever accused me of opacity (quite the opposite).
But I became her reader, and happily find her work engaging, actually wholly delightful.