My Cheeks Were Red

I stopped into Victoria's Secret the other day. It should have been fun. I mean, what's not to like about buying yourself something a little bit fun and frivolous?

Well, you know that classic nightmare that people have, about standing in front of a large audience, dressed in nothing but their underwear? I would argue that the real-life version of that nightmare is standing in a crowded lingerie store and having a clerk ask, "So how did that thong work out for you?"

Really, what's the right answer to that question? What came to my mind was, "None of your damned business." But she was just being helpful, doing what she was trained to do, which apparently involves making a grown woman squirm with embarrassment. And sadly, as much as I wanted to turn and flee, I really needed her to tell me where to find a matching bra.

I managed to grind out the necessary words, only to have to decide, out loud of course, while flanked on one side by a 19-year-old whose thong probably worked out great for her, and on the other by an entire family buying a bathrobe for Grandma, whether I preferred the demi or the push-up style.

Sad to say, I've managed to reach middle age without having the first clue how to answer that question. So I had to go try on some bras, but only after the clerk whipped out a measuring tape right there in the middle of the store, wrapped it around me, and then told me and everyone else my measurements. 

I was reminded of a time years ago, when I was working as a part-time sales clerk in a department store, and I had to cover the lingerie department for an hour. A nervous husband approached me for help. He wanted to buy something nice for his wife, but he couldn't remember her size. He thought I was about the same size, though, and so he asked me my bra size. There are very few situations in which that is an OK thing for a man to ask a woman, and this wasn't one of them. I waited a beat, but he was too far gone with nerves to see what was wrong with his question. Lucky for the guy I felt sorry for him, and I helped him out, without telling him my size, but without making him feel any worse either.

He should have just followed me into Victoria's Secret. He would have had his answer. Hell, everyone in that store now has the answer. And I knew exactly how he felt, because I swear I felt exactly like a poor, clueless man, trying to buy underwear for a woman.

I don't know if most women are born knowing how to do this kind of shopping, or if their mothers or older sisters teach them the ropes, or if I missed a critical day in school. I'm pretty sure it helps to drink first.

At least I came away knowing everything I need to know about these matters. Really. Ask me anything. For example, I know enough about bras now that I can say definitively that "demi" is just code for "padded" and "push-up" is code for "very very padded." I mean seriously padded. You could easily use one of those babies for a throw pillow. A very expensive, lacy throw pillow that looks like a bra, but still.

Blushing smiley face image from Bruno Maia, IconTexto

I Couldn't Resist

I was shopping at WalMart with my daughter this morning. She's outgrown her old flip flops, and wanted a new pair. She noticed some pink ones that were available in both kid sizes and grownup sizes. She was thrilled.

"Mommy," she said. "We could have matching flip flops. That would be the coolest thing in the world!"

I hate flip flops.

So, check out my new pink flip flops. My daughter has a pair that matches. She thinks that's the coolest thing in the world. She's eight. I know she won't feel that way for much longer. How could I resist?

My Little Fashion Genius

I've never claimed to have any fashion sense. As summer approaches, I typically stock up on white T-shirts, black T-shirts, and navy blue T-shirts. As winter approaches, I typically stock up on white turtlenecks, black turtlenecks, and navy blue turtlenecks. I'll typically pair my shirts with jeans, or with black pants or navy pants, or sometimes with khakis for a change of pace.

The other day my 8-year-old took me in hand. I was purging my closet of clothes that I no longer wear. She sat on my bed, a pint-sized autocrat, rolling her eyes and making snide comments. "Did you wear that to work on a farm, Mommy?" Or, "I guess you could keep that, if you promise you'll only wear it to paint the house."

Finally, in complete disgust, she demanded to take me shopping, and she demanded that I promise to try on and buy whatever she said. I am bigger than she is, and I control the credit cards, and she is in second grade and still happily wears outfits with clashing patterns, so I didn't agree to everything. But it was Mother's Day, and it sounded like fun, so I agreed to put myself in her hands, and we went shopping.

Normally, she doesn't have the world's longest attention span. And normally she's not a big fan of shopping unless it's for her. But not that day. We shopped for an hour, stopped for lunch, and then went back to the store and put in another hour. Without exaggeration, she had me try on 50 things.

I vetoed the shirts with enormous cabbage rose patterns and flappy things on the sleeves that looked like butterfly wings, and I vetoed everything in a shade I call "pinky tan," which I hate. But I bought nine new things that day. There was a red shirt, a couple of pink ones, two aqua things, a purple, and a yellow, and some more stuff. There were two things I might have picked out on my own, but most of them were in styles I wouldn't have even thought to try on.

So the day was an unmitigated success, and my daughter was an unmitigated success, but now she is flush with her newfound power. She wants another day with me, because she'd still like to deal with my pants and shoes, and she's disappointed that I didn't buy a dress. I can't decide if my future looks good, now that I have a personal shopper of my very own, or if I should be terrified.