The Secret I Learned From Victoria

There is always a penalty for procrastination. Mine was that I had to step into a Victoria’s Secret to finish my Christmas shopping. A just punishment for putting it off until it was too late to order my wife something online.

I braced myself as I walked the parking lot. This is no big deal. You’re a grown man, happily married for 14 years. There is no shame in wanting to buy your wife something naughty for being nice. I was fine until I turned the corner at the shopping center and made visual contact. My face turned the same shade of red as the bra worn in the life size picture of the model in the front window. I lost my nerve and walked past the entrance and ventured into the Apple Store two shops down.

I browsed the goodies there hoping to find something so compelling I would no longer have a need for a trip to Vicky’s. Perhaps she would appreciate a form fitting case for her iPhone. I had seen an ad for one that would boost her signal by at least two bars. That would be nice, but I couldn’t find what I was looking for.

On my way out of the store, I paused at the iPad table and gave it a long hard look. Maybe she’d like one of these instead. The thought of getting her a $500 piece of technology she had neither asked for, nor appreciate, as a way of avoiding going into Vicky’s and buying her a $50 piece of underwear was starting to make sense to me. Plus, if she didn’t like the iPad, I could always take it off her hands . . .No. No. No. I’m not that stupid. Almost, but not quite. I fought off the wizardry of Steve Jobs and slogged my way down to The Secret.

I walked in and roamed around a bit, totally lost, not even knowing where to start. As I browsed I wondered about the price of the merchandise. This is my biggest hang up with shopping for women’s underwear. In order to see the price tags, you actually have to touch the stuff. Maybe its just my conservative upbringing, but rummaging through a pile of panties looking for a microscopic price tag in a public place borders on charges misdemeanor. The alternative–leaning forward to take a closer look while keeping your hands buried deep in your pockets–crosses over into the felonious.

A sales clerk finally came to my rescue when she saw me walking circles around a table of brightly colored bras. She asked me if I needed some help. Lady, I don’t need your help. I need a full-service consultation. At this point, and I’m sure every clerk in Vicky’s knows this, she had me exactly where she wanted me. I was going to buy the first thing she suggested. Forget price. Forget preference. Just give me something and let me check the heck out of here.

It only took about three minutes of my standing at a distance and pointing as she shuffled through the merchandise like a casino dealer to pick out a nice set of bra and panties. When I told her we were done and that I was ready to check out, she did the most perplexing thing. She held them out and pointed me to the check-out counter. It was as if she expected me to grab these things, carry them across the store, and then plop them down on the counter like I was buying a brisket at a meat market. I looked at her pleadingly, hoping she’d walk the gauntlet for me. She didn’t. She already had another poor guy in her sights who had just walked in and apparently thought he’d find the best deals stuck to the top of his shoes.

I took them from her and nonchalantly dropped my hand to my side as if I were carrying a hand gun that I didn’t want anyone to notice. I walked purposefully across the store to the the check out counter. As the kind lady behind the counter rung them up, I was shocked by the price of the bra. It was twice as much as I wanted to pay, but I wasn’t about to say, “Hold on a minute, that’s a little pricey. Let me go find something cheaper. I want to spend as much time in this store as possible.” I mentally categorized the extra expense as an embarrassment surcharge and scanned my credit card. I breathed a sigh of relief as I exited the store.

When I arrived, I thought I had found a good parking spot, especially for the holiday shopping season. But now that I was carrying a bright pink bag that announced to the world where I’d just been, my car seemed to be parked a zip code away. Again, I held the bag to my side and tried to attract as little attention as possible. It did no good. Everyone I met saw the bag. To my surprise, I found their responses to be most gratifying. The women I met would glance down, see the bag, and give me a look of wistful admiration. One couple I met saw the bag at the same time. The man looked away immediately. The woman elbowed her man and gave him a look that said, “See, it CAN be done!” That’s when he gave me a look of hate infused irritation, as if I were intentionally trying to make him look bad. Not every guy I met looked at me with disdain though. There were a few who regarded me as a hero just returning from a quick run up Mt. Everest.

Their looks emboldened me. I slowed down and held the bag in front of me, chest high. I carried it like a bejeweled crown about to be presented to her royal majesty. I decided to walk through Dick’s Sporting Goods. It was out of may way, but I knew it would be full of men and I wanted to gloat. Lifting the bag high over my head, like a Super Bowl trophy, I marched through the center of the store while pulling off an ambitious rendition of “Carol of the Bells.”

As I reached the exit, a young man in his mid-twenties stopped me and thanked me for my courage. He said he was working his way down to the store and wanted to know if I had any tips or advice. I could think of only one word of wisdom, but I kept it to myself. I had just discovered the secret that made Victoria famous. I wasn’t about to reveal it for anything less than the price of a fancy bra.