I might just be the only woman living who hates shopping at Victoria’s Secret. This could indicate some weird genetic aberration that makes me slightly less female. Or maybe, just maybe, I am awakening to a sinister truth: Victoria’s Secret is cleverly marketed crap.
Like most other ladies, I have, at one time or another, ended up at Vic’s rifling through drawers and bins of high-priced hooker wear. On one particular occasion, as I stood there elbow deep in teal- and tangerine-colored unmentionables, I was struck by the absurdity and futility of this exercise. What was I doing here? What was the purpose of all of this? Why do so many women find this exercise enjoyable?
A.) The underwear is never going to make me look like Tyra Banks and/or improve my chances of getting laid at all. This is the precise meaning of that colorful idiom: "putting lipstick on a pig".
B.) My lifestyle doesn’t require--nor will it ever require--bras that are inflammable, aerodynamic, ergonomic, or emergency flotation devices. Bras need only do one thing: Prevent my fun bags from taking someone out on the subway.
C.) I’m not entirely sure what they make their bras out of, but it’s definitely not anything organic or… terrestrial. They are all being manufactured of that strange, rubbery wetsuit material that gives me hives. Who wants to wear rubber underwear, except, maybe that guy from The People Under the Stairs? I mean, does it biodegrade? Will discarded Biofits eventually form a land mass in the Northern Pacific? Time will tell.
As if the products weren't scary enough, I then had to endure the relentless attentions of the sales associates. To say that shopping at Vic's is a lot like being eaten by starving piranhas grossly understates the over-zealousness of the help. Personally, I like a little privacy when shopping for intimates. Call me bananas. In addition to their being obnoxiously up-in-my-grill, one particularly enthusiastic associate had no qualms about walking up to me and grabbing me firmly by the ta-tas. I can't think of any other occupation, save those in the sex industry, where that is even remotely acceptable. Reluctantly, I allowed her to drag me by my tits into the dressing room, only to continue being felt up by a different sales girl with a fake tan, tacky nails, and a Saugus attitude.
Conclusion: Vic's can suck it, because I'm going to Gap Body from now on.
