Shhhhh, it's a secret...

Opening night, first one of the season, and so I got it in my head to buy a new dress. And by "buy a new dress," I mean I realized I hadn't bought a new piece of clothing in about a year, so I went on my dinner break to the second hand shop a few blocks away, tried on about twenty different things, and bought the two that were least offensive. They actually turned out pretty great - one is little and black, and the other is little and black with polka dots. But with the polka dots came a distinct lack of strappadge, what I do believe they called strapless in "the business" (and by "the business" I mean, I know they fucking call it strapless). I'd never bought a strapless dress before. I'd never liked a strapless dress before.

Post second-hand store, I realized that, unless I wanted to look like a 90's flashback with the clear plastic bra straps snaking over my otherwise bare shoulders (and yes, I do still own that bra), I was going to have to buy a new one. A strapless one.

Usually, my bras come from Costco. And they're nice, really nice, Calvin Klein I think, a two pack for thirty bucks. Can't beat it, and I've bought them for years. But this time, I both didn't have time to go to Costco, and didn't think Costco would have bras of the san-strap variety. Walking around downtown, on limited time, with a dress I really wanted to wear and no bra to wear it with, I had only one option. It was off to Victoria's Secret I went.

would you like some pink with your pink?

Now, I've been to Vicki's before. With my mom, growing up, that's where we'd go when it was a special occaision to buy bras, and not just the standard I-need-new-bras time. But I hadn't been in years,  and... well, some things have changed.

For one, they now have (or maybe have always had, and I missed it as a teenager) these people called "Bra Specialists." That's the official title. I got the impression that, along with learning to measure a person and becoming familiar with Vicki's selection, Bra Specialist (heretofore known as a "BS") training consists of a) pitching your voice an octave higher than is natural for you, b) learning to speak to every customer like they're your best friend, who you're trying to appear very interested in, but secretly don't care about at all, and c) learning every synonym for "sexy," and maybe even making up a few of your own.

(Examples include: cute, fun, pretty, classy, cutesy, adorable, adorbs, darling, nice, fun fun, and various high pitched squeak-like noises meant to indicate general approval).

For another, the customer service is aggressive, yet really unsatisfying. There seems to be this strange idea in modern salesmanship that over-friendliness and a kind of fake "personal touch" is going to sell more product. I get it mostly from women, at women's shops, like they're trying to convince me (badly) that they like their job, that they're interested in me personally, etc. It manifests in things like the Vicki's lady asking me how to spell my name, saying "Oh, that's so unique!" with a kind of half smile, her hand on her hip, listening to her radio (yes, they have in-ear radios. In Victoria's Secret. In case of Bra Disaster during the Zombie Apocalypse, I can only assume). Or in how she referred to everything as "hers," as in "I've got this one in a 36C, which is your sister size, but I think I'm all out of the 34D." She handed me a card, when I finally picked a bra, indicating which styles and colors I liked. I'm supposed to keep the card, and bring it back with me when I "come visit them again."

I don't think it was my BS's fault, but there's this strange stream-lining of the personal that has never, ever felt real to me, and that never, ever makes me want to buy anything. I'd much rather a salesman either be interested in me, genuinely, or simply be efficient and distant, and do their job. The patina of pretend-to-care just gave me the heebie jeebies, and I wanted to leave, but by god, I needed that bra.

I spent double on the bra what I did on the dress, figuring it would be something I'd own and use a lot (for everything that's wrong with Vicki's, the quality is really top notch). I took it to the cash register, paid for it, and they handed it back to me in a little pink bag. Or rather, The Little Pink Bag.

Which proved to be the most hilarious part of the whole endeavor; everything that happened in the store was fairly expected, but I wasn't prepared for what it would be like to carry a bright pink tote back across downtown. I didn't get heckled or hassled, but I did get looked at a lot. Returning to the theater, the new stagehand was (of course) waiting in the greenroom, and I got to introduce myself to this forty-something ex-NY dude holding my new lingerie. I didn't try to hide it, but I'm nervous enough about supervising someone who's both older and male, and if someone had let me know he'd be there, I probably would have left it upstairs.

And that kind of sums up the strange, secret-but-not-really-secret philosophy that blossoms from the The Little Pink Bag. Everybody knows what it means. Everybody knows (within range) what's inside, and unless it's a guy carrying the bag, the things inside are probably intended for the person carrying the bag. But the title of the store? Victoria's Secret. Get that, ladies? Wearing underwear is a secret, that nobody should ever see, so you're supposed to feel a little ashamed and embarrassed about it. But we're going to give it to you in the most obnoxiously obvious packaging ever, so everyone who sees you will know about your secret, without you telling them, just to double up a little on the shame.

It would be fine if the act of buying underwear and the displaying of that act both fell into the same category. As in, you buy underwear, don't really want to share it with the world, and thus don't. Or, you buy underwear, want to share it with the world, and do. But the "secret" coupled with the The Little Pink Bag makes for a confusing, double-speak kind of message. It isn't really surprising, just par for the patriarchal course.

All that said, the bra looked great, the dress looked great, and I looked great. I probably won't be going back to Vickie's (ever, if I can help it). But going strapless? Most definitely. And I suppose, for that, I owe a thank you. Much appreciated, BS.