Victoria's Secret is out

Ok, there has been a theme with some of my postings, that of lingerie. This has nothing to do with food, unless you consider what to wear for certain dinners.

There is mom lingerie, dating lingerie, virginal, bridal, and trainer.

For several years it seemed that it didn't matter what in the hell I wore, it would not make any positive difference, as interests were lateral. However, there is a personal side, and a self awareness side that all women understand.

We put ourselves, especially if mothers, last. My daughter recognized this, and often, as she grew older, would say, "treat yourself Mom." But I was carrying the house, would write most of the food checks, and there was Costco with the pack of mom-ness underwear. What the hell, worked for me, 'cause who was looking? Wrong attitude, and I get that now. She however, is a forthright young woman whose come home from college luggage last year was stuffed Vicky's bags.

When I first got into lingerie, as every teenage girl does, it was a break FROM mom. I didn't know what my mom wore; I wanted my own style, from shampoo, (no Prell thank you), to my first cologne, (Chanel 59) and then lingerie. We lived in Germany. I could shop in the base, with all the made in America white stuff, or, I could saunter downtown to Herties, the local department store and shop with my girlfriends.

This was the era of beginning panty hose, with wierd cuts that looked like stockings and garter belts all in one, with bra slips, and tiny tiny bottoms. German is a very pragmatic and descriptive language. Bustenhalters, "bust-holders" were bras, abbreviated to b-h, or "bey-hah. We wanted bey-has.

A stolid shopwoman, of Wagnerian size looked at us, gangly junior-sized American women and sniffed. "Null," she intoned. The bras were piled into large waist high bins, all colors and mechanations. Some were leopard, others red and see through, many virginal lace, cross strap, strapless, add-a strap, etc. They were grouped very pragmaatically, like the language, into four sizes; 1-eins, 2-zewi, 3-drei, and 4-fier. Larger sizes, awe-inspiring 5, 6, or the 00mm-pah-pah 7 were in the Wagner section. We cowered, we were not large enough for these bra bins, we were , Null, zero. We crept away to the junior, and even child section for our bras. I loved my bra slip, with mini skirts only 9-10 inches long, a bra slip was perfect; it lifted when you reached up, and never showed the slip! What else we may have showed was another issue.

Later in college, no bras. Bandaids were the issue, when shopping in the frozen food section. I remember sleeping on campus away from home and realizing I had no bra the next day. I was terrified, and walked like Quasimoto the rest of the day, shoulders hunched. I got over it, and wore halters, no bra, backless, and long bell bottoms I embroidered. My dad had a fit and said not daughter of his was wearing that, but I did. so there.

Later on, the cascade of bras continued, shopping in London, with all sorts of exotic styles for fun. What color to wear under what. Front, back, closure, pull on...pull off! It was the late 60's and who needed them?

Motherhood, maternity bras, enough said. Ditched them as soon as I could, and back to fancy stuff for dating. Single mom, single lingerie.

In India, my friend's houseboy ironed her bras, and every week after laundry they were lined up like little Frederick's of Hollywood pyramids, folded into triangles and IRONED. I don't know what bothered me more, that someone saw the lingerie, or that this man ironed them. Shoppping in the market, a chain link fence was festooned with bras, all lurid colors. "Russian bras!" the man said, and I wasn't sure if it was because of their impressive peasant size, or where they were made.

My bra quest continued. Recently in Turkey, I got a kick out of the contrast between publidc and private, all in public. One store had wedding dresses, confections with yards of tuille. And also, the conservative wedding outfit for the traditional, with headscarf and full- on covered jacket. Across the street was the bra shop. Points, crennelations, pyramids, all facing east, the bras enticed and mocked the store across the street. For good measure, some of the mannequins were even of statuesque nature so all would see themselves in the window.

Which brings me to Vicky's. I know it is a cunning marketing plan, to call this Victoria's. THis implies virginal, Victorian, under-the-sheets enthusiasm topped with virginal faux-reluctance. "For that special occasion, " intoned a woman showing me samples, " these are for every day. " WHAT special occasion, the nuptials, the tryst, the post maternity? What in the hell were they marketing?

Front of the house: dessert. Confectionary, fluff, lace, tuille, leopard, see through, and bondage. Back of the house: main course: every day, cotton, swimsuit, 24/7 wearing, fatigue, and camoflauge. And, no one was a 4, 5,6, or 7. I asked to see several types, "We don't usually have your size on display, but they are below." I am a 38 for God's sake, not a 60. Nope, like size 6 shoes on display, only the teeny ones with lots of push up were on the impossibly thin manequins, with pelvic bones that would cut butter. The women selling things wear formal black suits and get discounts apparently, tanning. They were lovely. I shopped, I took in trays of samples from the 38 drawer, and spent my gift certificate. It was great. No more "null" , or Russian bras, " or dance of the seven veils. It is truly interesting though how women have been convinced to buy from this place named after one of the most repressed Victorians...but she had 12 kids. Think about it.