The Secret is Out

I have shopped at Victoria’s Secret since they were actually kind of a secret, say twenty five years, or so. I know, shock, I am that old, and apparently have enjoyed quality undergarments since I was aged four. I have had faith in VS long before there were “angels” involved. Why so loyal? I’ve had VS bras and panties last nearly the twenty five years I’ve been loyal! No joke! I finally parted with a favorite pair of panties, not because I didn’t wear them, I did. Not because they wore out, they didn’t. I parted with them because they were too big after myself becoming more “angel” like. Now EVERYONE shops at VS, they even have an iPhone app, for Christ’s sake. 

 

There were a couple of brief periods of darkness for VS; one in the nineties when the sales associates were less than kind to smaller busted women. A friend of mine, less endowed, incredibly, than myself, went to buy a bra on my recommendation. The sales associate gave her the up and down and said “we don’t carry training bras”. Customer. Lost. For. Life.  Five years or so, ago, I had some customer service disappointments. Just one in millions and treated as such. I went to Frederick’s and was delighted beyond belief by their customer service. I now shop at both venues – angels and devils, like me! 

 

Now, VS has not only drunk the customer service Kool-Aid, they have baptized themselves in it! The designs are divine (no pun intended), and the customer service is beyond heaven. Have you seen their magic tape measure? Right? They fall all over themselves to measure you, though you insist you are now and have always been a 34B, with cutlets. “Oh, no! Miss (not M’am), you are a 32DD.” Smile. Ear to ear. I call my plastic surgeon, “that augmentation I have scheduled? Perhaps a reduction instead, I really only need one D. I’m not one to be greed-D”. 

 

So you grab a PILE of 32DDs to try on and you are shown to a dressing room roughly the size of your living room, but with way better lighting. And painted pink, not like your living room, though you wish. The associate introduces herself, they all have assumed, porn star names now, have you noticed? “Hi, I’m Desiree Angelica”,  as she points out the doorbell INSIDE the dressing room. Oooooo! Ding, dong! “Bring me more underwear!”, Ding, dong! “Bring me more underwear!” Ding, dong! “Bring me more underwear!”, Ding, dong! “Bring me EVERYTHING you have in a 32DD!!” And, of course you buy it. All. Especially with all the matchy-matchy things. You pick out a bra in a cute floral. Alas, there are panties in thirteen styles to match. And a nightie, and a naughty, and a robe. And they ever so carefully wrap each item in no less than seven sheets of perfectly varied shades of pink tissue paper. I swoon. I love pink. Meanwhile, you’re grabbing perfume and lip gloss and tote bags all conveniently located adjacent to (blocking your path to) the cash registers. You only bought four items ($300), but they have carefully tucked the tissue encased morsels into an ENORMOUS and adorable carrier bag that you vow you will never, ever, ever, ever throw away. Even though you have twenty just like it, with only slight variations in the color of the stripes, tucked behind your dresser (how you hide the fact you’ve been shopping) at home. My dresser is actually leaning forward precariously for all the carrier bags tucked behind it. And I can’t close my underwear drawer. All of which is kind of funny, because I don’t actually wear underwear very often. My secret. Ssshhhh.