Victoria's Secret

Married for thirty years, my underwear came from Wal-Mart, Target, Penny's. It wasn't too long after my divorce, however, that I was introduced to the lingerie shop called Victoria's Secret, where a typical bra sold for $42 - or four times what you expected to pay elsewhere. "Worth every penny," my friends said. "We'll see," I thought, as we went shopping.

I remember asking the young saleswoman in one of the Des Moines shops if she was wearing a bra from Victoria's Secret, and of course she was, and then I asked her how long they lasted. She shrugged her shoulders. She didn't know. She couldn't remember when she had purchased it because it had been so long ago. I believed her; it tallied with what my friends were saying about the quality of the garment. I tried on several models, pleasantly surprised at the fit and comfort, and settled on two of two kinds.

That was many years ago. I can't say exactly, because, like the saleswoman, I can't remember. It's been at least five years, and could be as much as seven or eight years. Certainly I'd gotten my money's worth out of them.

But one day I took a closer look at the items I had been taking for granted every day as I slung one on. They were not worn out, by any means. Plenty of life and lift left there! But they didn't look very nice. I had always washed them by hand and drip-dried them, but even with that careful care, it now occurred to me that they looked, well, yellow. No one wants their underwear to look yellow. Any color but yellow.

I decided it was time to shop again at Victoria's Secret, and made plans with my sister, who lives in Des Moines, for December 8. I bet you don't remember December 8 because we have had so many instances this year since then, but as we came closer and closer to the date, the weatherman was describing the coming weather event as "An epic and extremely dangerous" winter storm.

He was correct. We received a foot of snow that Tuesday, and blizzard winds were predicted for the next day. He was right about that too, and the whole world as I knew it simply stayed home. That part was glorious; however, Sis and I cancelled our shopping trip, and rescheduled it for a week later.

On December 15, we were able to go to a Victoria's Secret, where I showed my old bras to a saleswoman, who said,"Oh yes, I remember these. Of course, we don't carry them anymore," and I heard in my head all the things I thought were going through hers: "Ewww! I just touched someone's yellow underwear! How soon can I get away and wash my hands?"

Even if it was my imagination, she had made me feel old and I had become uneasy. I stuffed the bras back in the bag and asked what she had that was most similar to what I had. She started showing me one here, one there, then across the room, then to the back. All the while I am nervous that this is going to take a while, and I am not alone, and who wants to stand around while someone else shops for underwear. I hastily took down the names of a couple styles she recommended and thanked her for her time. Sis didn't seem to have a problem and wondered why we were leaving without a purchase, but I just said I didn't feel like doing it that day, we had other shopping, Christmas shopping, that needed to be done before we ran out of time. The bras could wait.

On January 1, I had to take my Vancouver daughter to the airport following her Christmas visit, and thought that a good time to try Victoria's Secret again, because I would be alone. Back in the parking structure after seeing her off, I reached for my purse to get money for the parking fee. It was so aggravating - I couldn't find the purse in the dark, so I pulled aside outside where it was a bit lighter to try again. No purse. Had I left it at home? I must have. Or had I left the car unlocked and someone took it? Surely it must be right there on the floor at home, where I wouldn't forget it. How can you leave to go shopping without your driver's license, credit cards, coupons? Every once in a while I do these things - miss the obvious. Thankfully, I had a stash of quarters in the car for the car wash, so didn't have to take up permanent residence at the airport.

But I couldn't go shopping, and was nervous that this would be the one time I would be pulled over for something, and not have a license to show. I drove - carefully! - over to my sister's. If I couldn't shop, I could at least stop in and say hello.

Her husband laughed at me, and embarrassed me by reminding me that once before when that daughter had needed a ride to the airport I had left my purse at home. (These are the kinds of reminders that make you very nervous about the aging process.) He said he'd be glad to loan me some money, however, since I also needed to stop for cat food. I demurred, because I knew the price of the bras and didn't want to ask him for $200. He persisted. (I hadn't named the amount out loud.) I almost took him up on it until I remembered that the sizable coupon for the cat food was in the purse. No, no. It just seemed like this shopping trip was doomed, and it was best to just get safely home before something else went wrong.

On January 30, I drove to Omaha to visit my other daughter, and we planned on shopping at Mall of the Bluffs in Council Bluffs, since neither of us had ever stopped there...and they had a Victoria's Secret! We did have good shopping there, mainly at Dillard's.

At the Victoria's Secret there, I was approached by a saleswoman so young I wondered if she were even in a bra. She said she'd been working there two years, so I plodded on, telling her my size and what I was looking for, stifling my wish to ask for a more mature saleswoman.

"Let's just measure you," she chirped.

"I just told you my size," my head said while my mouth said "Oh, fine. I suppose it could have changed."

She measured me at four inches around smaller than I had ever been in my life, and that's not the cup size.

"Can't be," I said. "Better measure again."

She did, and got the same ridiculous number - which I could not see on her measuring tape, looking down with trifocals at so close an item and at such an angle.

"Get it over with," the head said while I gritted my teeth at this waste of time and said, "I don't think so, but we can try that," and she flew around the room until she had a collection, all 32Bs.

In the dressing room, I couldn't even hook them. And there was more of me that should have been in the bra that wasn't. Also, I was having trouble breathing. As I am expressing my frustration and displeasure at this entire process and my daughter on the other side of the dressing room door was trying to be conciliatory and prevent me from saying something both audible and embarrassing, another saleswoman came by, heard what was going on, and offered to help.

"Come in here," I commanded. "Look at this! Not only does it not fit, it doesn't fit!"

"Oh my, that's definitely too small!" she cheerfully agreed. "Let me find you something in a bigger size."

She returned, I was fitted, she made some adjustments, and all seemed to be in order. I purchased four.

When we returned to the car and were looking them over, I saw they were 34Ds. I looked at my daughter and started to laugh. "What do they put the big girls in now?" I asked her, "MM for mammoth mammaries?"

But they had seemed to fit in the dressing room, and though I had never been a D in my life, and 34 seemed quite fitted, we concluded they must have resized underwear, as they have women's clothes, to make fat ladies feel better. I suppose gals with small breasts feel better buying bigger cup sizes.

(I used to make my own clothes, and I was a size 10 or 12. Now when I shop, I am a 2 or 4 or 6, but whatever the number, I am the same size. I never know what to say when a sales clerk asks "What size are you looking for?" I hate shopping.)

By the time I got home I was having second thoughts, and set aside three of the four purchases and just wore one. Sure, it felt ok when I first put it on, if a little snug, but after all, the ones I had been wearing were probably all stretched out, even if I didn't think so, so I would get used to these, right? Kind of like the difference between your old comfortable worn shoes, and the new pair as you break it in.

After a couple of weeks though of trying to break in this bra, it was obvious that I should have just put my foot down the first time and bought what I wanted instead of what the child selling them wanted me to buy. Why do I always assume someone else knows better than I do!

You can imagine what my sister said when I told her I needed to come to Des Moines to go to a Victoria's Secret again: "I just buy my bras at Target. It's a lot less complicated."

We set it up for the following Tuesday. That Tuesday, though, there was significant refreezing on the highways. Need I say, we cancelled? It was cancelled at the suggestions of two of my co-workers who live out of town and drive in everything and advised me to anyway.

A week later the weather was again iffy ("Iffy"? We've moved from "epic and extremely dangerous" to "iffy?") I felt like a dog on a leash in spring, threw caution to the wind and decided to go anyway. As soon as I started the car, the "service engine soon" light came on, and I started to think God doesn't like Victoria's Secret.

But my mechanic is right on the way out of town, so I pulled in and asked him about it. Bless his heart, he stopped what he was doing right away and spent half an hour tracking down a loose gas cap.

"That's it?"

"Yup, happens all the time."

"You're absolutely certain this car is safe to drive? It couldn't be something else?"

"Nope. We found it."

I arrived safely (This was a good sign.) at the Victoria's Secret in Southridge Mall, where I walked from front to back to front of the store, sizing up all the sales clerks - both of them, one young, one not so young (a good sign). I went and stood at a discreet distance from the older one until she finished with her customer, at which time she immediately offered her assistance (good sign).

I told her my sorry tale, and she was profuse in her apology for all the Victoria Secret personnel with whom I had been dealing (good sign). This woman revealed she had been with the company for thirteen years. "God bless you!" I cried, now certain that I was finally in the right place.

We started from scratch with that tape measure, and interestingly enough, it showed exactly what I had been saying all along was my size. She very efficiently gathered a few bras for me to try on, adjusted them here and there, and observed that they had me in the wrong cup size too.

I told her I thought they must have rearranged bra sizes as they have dress sizes, but she said "No, that hasn't changed. They put you in the wrong size all the way around."

She exchanged everything as necessary, and in just fifteen minutes I was done the way I should have been done on the initial occasion three months before. Not only could I breathe a sigh of relief, I could breathe.

"How in the world could anyone have read you as a 32?" she mused as she bagged the bras. "You are a perfect 36."

If only the boys would say that.

marty racheter 030510

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