My 95-year-old boyfriend, Lloyd.

BACKGROUND:
Those of you who are not members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints may not know that twice annually, the entire body of the church gathers together to hear the words of our leaders, who speak in Salt Lake City at the Conference Center, a building which holds some 20,000-plus persons. People often travel great distances to be there, although it can also be viewed at virtually any LDS church building in the country, as well as many abroad (or even in your home, if you have the BYU channel). In order to actually attend the meeting live in the Conference Center, one needs a ticket. It's a pretty crazy scene at Temple Square during General Conference--LOTS of people, including Mormons and anti-Mormons. There are five sessions total: Saturday morning, afternoon, and evening (Sat. evening is just for the men), and Sunday morning and afternoon. And here begins my tale--April, 2005:

While I was at school at BYU, about an hour's drive from Salt Lake City, I had been given tickets to the Saturday morning session, by a friend without a car who didn't want to bother with finding a way there and back, and was feeling more like staying home and watching it on TV anyway. I eventually hooked up with a friend who was going to SLC already, though he was going to watch it with his family and was going to stay for all three sessions . . . nonetheless, it was the best I could do. So, he dropped me off at Temple Square, and we said we'd be in touch later about getting home. I skipped along my merry way.

The morning session was wonderful. My seat was great, and it's always amazing to sit there in that huge conference center and to feel such a sense of community. I wanted to go to the second session. Without a ticket, though, I was reduced to waiting in the Standby line.

In the line, I was standing next to an old man who began to talk to me. He was the oldest working man in the state of Wyoming, I discovered, and he told me about his wonderful experiences at the convention he'd just been to for the older workers of America. He showed me a pamphlet, with all the pictures of the oldest workers from all fifty states, and told me which of the ladies were good dancers, and so forth. I was so amused, and I kept formulating in my head the story I would tell to my roommates about my General Conference Boyfriend.

"We started talking in the Standby line and we just hit it off really well."

He offered me his chicken nuggets, and (being vegetarian) I respectfully declined. He did, however, manage to give me a peanut M&M.

By the time we reached the front of the line where they turned us away, he and I (his name was Lloyd) were buddies, so we went along to try and find an alternate venue to watch Conference. Our first try was the Assembly Hall, but they were only showing it in Spanish there. We eventually found our way to the Visitors' Center.

The meeting had already begun, and it was dark in the theatre, so I helped Lloyd into his seat. He squeezed my arm in thanks, and I giggled to myself about the story I would tell my roommates. As the speakers began, Lloyd put his arm around me, and I thought the fictional boyfriend story was just getting too good. He was being so affectionate and grandfatherly . . . great-grandfatherly . . .

The speakers continued, and I felt a hand in my hair. Lloyd was stroking my locks. I was taken aback. I continued to allow it, though for three reasons: (1) stroking one's hair is still a pretty benign act--something I would do to my girl friends, (2) it was General Conference, and there were lots of people around, so I felt assured that he wouldn't try anything REALLY funny, (3) even if he DID try something funny, he was ninety-five and I felt pretty sure I could take him out. I leaned as far away from him as I could in my chair and tried to take notes, which came out mostly as scribbles. It's kind of hard to concentrate on Conference when you're being stroked by a man seventy-five years your senior.

Some people came and sat next to us, and he withdrew his arm. I thought that meant he was going to behave, so I relaxed back into the center of my seat. Before I knew it, frisky old Lloyd had taken my hand, and was lovingly stroking that. At that point, I was pretty certain he had crossed the line. I felt very uncomfortable, and couldn't hear a word of what anyone was saying--with the exception of one line from Elder Scott's talk.

"Love is the foundation of all effective missionary work," he said, in his gentle way.

At that point, Lloyd took my arm, squeezed it a little bit, and with a wicked glint in his eye said, "It's the foundation of A LOT of things!" It was then that I knew I had to flee. As soon as that talk ended, and we all stood for the intermediate hymn, I grabbed my things, muttered, "I've got to go to the bathroom!" and scurried out of the theatre, with an expression of befuddlement, terror, horror, hilarity, and shock plastered on my face. I did go to the bathroom. After I regained my composure, I went to the Assembly Hall and listened to the rest of the session in Spanish. Even though I do understand Spanish, I didn't really get much out of that session, either. I was pretty shaken.

I was terrified that I would have to hang out alone in SLC until my ride was done with the Priesthood session, until the clouds opened up and the light of heaven shone down upon me, as my phone rang. Earlier, I had run into Sam from the ward (who was also up in Salt Lake for conference), and he and his friend had been planning on staying through all three sessions, but changed their minds at the last minute. He was wondering if I wanted a ride home. And of course I did.

The moral of the story? Just because it's General Conference doesn't mean it's safe for you to be alone. And just because he's ninety-five doesn't mean he's harmless.