Victoria's Secret Revealed!

Last Christmas, I agreed, somewhat grudgingly, to be a "secret Santa" for a female co-worker. I'm still not sure why.

I am not good at shopping for women. I freely admit this. And when I got this particular co-worker's wish list, it was enough to make my right eye start twitching. She wanted, she said, "something from Bath and Body Works."

This is not specific enough a request when you're writing a note that may end up in the hands of an actual man-person. I want the exact brand, the exact scent, dammit. I hate going into those stores. I never know what to ask the salesperson. This is because men do not use skin cream. Men do not moisturize, and men never, ever pronounce the word "fluid" in that Frenchified way--floo-eed--that you hear in cosmetics commercials. Even French men don't pronounce it that way, because, French or not, they don't want their French construction-worker buddies to think that they're prancing nancy-boys.

This is why men do not go into a Bath and Body Works store unless they are trying to evade the law. We never know how to act in these places:

SALESWOMAN: May I help you, sir?

MAN: Uh, yes, this lavender cream moisturizer looks nice, but does it exfoliate?

See? It doesn't work. In reality, when a man is forced into a moisturizer store--usually to buy a gift--the exchange goes something like this:

SALESWOMAN: May I help you, sir?

MAN: Uh, well . . .

SALESWOMAN: Looking for something in particular?

MAN (desperately snatching bottle):Yeah! Here it is! This is what I came for!

SALESWOMAN: That's an oxygen tank, sir.

MAN: Um . . . is it?

SALESWOMAN: And it's attached to an old lady.

MAN: Yes. Yes, it is. Well, in that case, perhaps some of your multi-foaming--um . . . oh, hell. I'm going to be honest here, okay? I haven't got a damn clue what I'm doing here. I came to get something for my girlfriend. Just give me something that smells good and won't cause hives, all right?

Yes, women. This is really how men are when it comes to body-lotion stores. We loathe them. We hate and fear them. We would not wish them on our worst enemy. But our fear of the lotion emporium pales in comparison to our dread of . . . the underwear store!!!

Women reading this now think I'm kidding. They think men love to go with them to the underwear store. And under certain circumstances, they are correct. Note, however, that I said, "under certain circumstances." I once went lingerie shopping with my then-girlfriend. Sounds fun, right? You, her, and racks and racks of lacey underthings. What could be the problem?

Here's the problem: my then-girlfriend apparently wore a very unusual bra size, one made only for Victoria's Secret by blind Tibetan monks, and shipped to the United States once every seven years during the full moon. Therefore, any time Victoria's Secret had an underwear clearance, my then-girlfriend metamorphosed into an insane, heartless lingerie-shopping machine from hell.

"This should only take a few minutes," she lied as we approached the local mall's Victoria's Secret franchise. We stepped through the door and her eyes glazed over as she contemplated the display tables overflowing with clearance underthings. Then she seized my hand and very nearly pulled my shoulder out of the socket as she dragged me toward this El Dorado of bras and panties.

Until this moment, I had sort of been looking forward to the trip. My then-girlfriend was very attractive, and the prospect of helping her pick out lingerie was kind of exciting. Besides, she had promised to model her purchases for me later that afternoon.

Now, however, I was beginning to have second thoughts. Perhaps it was the prospect of so much underwear lying there on those tables, all of it seeming to whisper, "You're going to be in here a loonng time." Perhaps it was the way my then-girlfriend's breath quickened audibly as she approached the clearance panty rack while my mind screamed, Panties?!? She didn't say anything about panties! To tell the truth, I'm not entirely certain why fear began to creep into my head. What I do know is that I was right to be afraid.

My then-girlfriend surveyed the clearance tables for a few moments, gazing down at the various bras and panties like a general gazing down from high ground at the opposing army, planning her strategy. Then, she flew into the tables so fast that the eye could not accurately follow her, flashing around the bras and panties like a satin-lined whirlwind. Well, not exactly like a whirlwind. Whirlwinds are usually there and gone in the space of a few minutes.

My then-girlfriend took four hours.

Yes.

Four hours.

Let me say something here. When I shop, the entire transaction takes maybe twenty minutes. I go in, I look at the clothing. If the garment I am considering is in my size and does not look like something Kramer would wear, I purchase it. I then leave the store and see about more important business, like eating.

That said, let me reiterate something:

Four. Hours.

There. I think I've made my point quite handily. I shall press on.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. The whirlwind thing.

Around the tables my then-girlfriend raced, throwing rejected underthings aside like trash, and every so often pausing to inspect a "possible." These she would sling absently over one arm for closer inspection later.

"That one looks nice," I offered. Actually, I didn't know if it looked nice or not. Actually, I didn't care. My philosophy on women's underwear is that women almost invariably look better out of it than in it. Therefore, I don't care what the underwear itself looks like. I have always considered women's lingerie to be merely an annoying delay on the way to the final destination. In reality, I merely offered my opinion in the desperate hope that my then-girlfriend would think, Oh. He thinks I'll look sexy wearing this, so obviously this is all I'll need. I'll just buy it right now, so we can go eat.

It didn't quite work out that way.

"You think so?" she asked.

"Oh, absolutely."

Long pause. "Nah," she said at last.

And with that, she dove back into the stacks. As I said before, she had a very unusual bra size, so there were precious few in the store to begin with. When she did find one, she would stare at it for awhile, trying to decide whether she liked it. Most of the time, she would end up throwing it back onto the table. Finally, after only about two hours, she had located six bras in her size that did not, at least, warrant immediate censure.

"These'll probably do," she said.

"So we're ready to go?" I asked, hoping I didn't sound like I was begging.

"Oh, no. Now I've got to find some panties."

"I thought you were only here for bras."

"Well, I may as well stock up while I can."

I could not deny that this made sense. What did not make sense to me, however, was the sheer amount of time it took my then-girlfriend to find suitable panties. She seemed obsessed with the concept of matching. If the floral pattern in the brasierre contained rhododenderons, whereas the floral pattern in the panties did not, then those panties were unacceptable, no matter how otherwise-identical they appeared. The odd thing was--and I knew this from firsthand observation--my then-girlfriend did not care whether her bras and panties matched in everyday life. She just grabbed the first pair of each that came to hand. Matching, however, appeared to have become an unholy fixation in this quest for underwear.

As my then-girlfriend was rummaging around in the underpants bins, another young couple caught my eye. The young lady appeared to be as enraptured as my then-girlfriend. The young man had the vacant, hollow-eyed stare of a concentration-camp inmate. He was holding several bras in his hands. And he was wearing panties on his head. He made eye contact with me.

"Don't let her make you hold anything, man," he said. "One of us gotta keep his dignity." I gazed at him with the silent horror and tacit sympathy of a fellow prisoner of war. I knew then that I must hold on to my dignity. For my brother. For my father. For this poor wretch before me. For all men everywhere.

"Come over here and hold these," my then-girlfriend said, thrusting a handful of panties at me.

I went over there and held them.

After another hour or so, my then-girlfriend said, "I think this'll do it."

"So we're ready to go?"

"Of course not. I've got to try them on first."

"Try them on?!?" I shrieked. "What are you talking about? I thought you knew they would fit you. The one specific size, the blind monks, remember?"

"Of course they'll fit."

"Then why do you have to try them on?" I asked.

"I just do. Now come over here," she said. "And take those panties off your head."

She led me over to a small, uncomfortable chair by the fitting rooms and bade me sit down. Then she uttered the three most terrible words in the English language--words which, though innocuous by themselves, when strung together form the most hated sentence in all of boyfriendhood.

"Hold my purse."

So there I sat, panties on my head, a purse in my hand, all dignity gone. For forty-five minutes. Yes. Forty-five minutes.

Now, when I go shopping, I rarely try anything on. I know my sizes, I know what will fit. If by chance I do need to try something on, I take the article of clothing to the fitting room, put it on, and remove it. If the article of clothing fits, I purchase it. If not, I return it to the rack from whence it came. The entire process takes perhaps five minutes.

Not so with my then-girlfriend. She was apparently very concerned about not only the overall fit, but the fit in every single minute particular, down to the lay of the seam.

To make matters worse, the chair in which I was sitting was located, as it is in all Victoria's Secrets the world over, next to the laciest, filmiest, most provocative undergarments in the entire store. Perhaps in the entire world. Women walked by with their merchandise, giving me a wide berth and glaring suspiciously at me. I wanted to scream, "I'm not a sex pervert! Really, I'm not! This isn't my purse! I'm just waiting for my girlfriend! She's in the dressing room right now, trying on underwear that she already knows will fit!"

Finally, after forty-five minutes of trying on, scrutinizing, and perhaps making alterations to the chosen undergarments, my then-girlfriend emerged from the fitting room and replaced two bras that she had known wouldn't fit but had tried on anyway, apparently in the hope that her breasts had spontaneously shrunk. She retrieved her purse, took the panties off my head, and said, "Let's go."

"We're really leaving?" I asked.

"Yep," she said, "all set," and I nearly wept in gratitude.

We went to the checkout, where the saleslady rang up my then-girlfriend's purchases while staring at me as if she were trying to figure out which currently-at-large sex criminal I most resembled. Then she handed over my then-girlfriend's purchases and we stepped out into the blessed, clean air of the mall.

"So, are we ready to go home?" I asked, already looking forward to the promised modeling session.

"Sure," my then-girlfriend smiled. "Just as soon as I can find a nice dress at Dillard's."