COLUMN Holt's Harangue

Author: Christian Holt

Two weekends ago, I went shopping. This only occurs twice a year. Every time I'm either conned into doing it by an attractive friend of the opposite sex, or have run out of deodorant. Lucky for her, it was only the former.
So my friends Kate and Maggie went with me to the mall. Kate's objective, and I'm not making this up, was to buy a thong. I know what you're thinking, so stop. She needed it for her school's fundraiser, an annual fashion show. It was for a good cause, you pervert.
The three of us went down to the local Victoria's Secret. I, like many men, consider this a holy shrine. It is a fact of life that a man would love to be taken to Victoria's Secret, with the intention of his female companion modeling the clothes. Furthermore, most guys believe that the models in the magazines actually live in the store, walking up and the down the aisles asking, "Does my bikini line show?" The models all have hips the size of paper, and after a hard day of work are stacked neatly and pressed overnight.
So Kate, Maggie and I walked around the store. We walked around aisle after aisle of underwear. Victoria's big secret is apparently a fondness for undergarments. Freud would have had a ball. The store is swathed in pink. Everything is pink, the walls, the hangers, the floor, some of the clothes … the lips on model Tyra Banks. Where was I again?
Thongs! That's right! Well, Kate finally found the thongs. We actually had walked past them before, mistaking them for bracelets. Being the complete social idiot that I am, I held up the garments in question for further examination. Some were done pink, some were black and some were red.
And some had zebra stripes on them. It seemed ludicrous to me that an entire rare animal was killed for the hair thin piece of garment of the wearer. Fortunately, I examined this further, and realized it was not real zebra. By then, however, every employee in the store was giving me looks. So I put away my magnifying glass.
Kate wouldn't actually let me see her wear the thongs in question. But she bought a few, all reasonably priced at $15. That means she gets one square centimeter of clothing for every dollar. Sounds like a deal to me. Especially since it only costs a dollar extra if you want something classy written on it, like "Angel."
Waiting in line, our shopping done, one thing caught my eye. They had ads in the store, hung right above the cashiers. Pictured was a beautiful woman in her under-roos, with the slogan "very sexy." I thought to myself, thank god they told me. I never would have figured it out otherwise. Victoria's Secret's ad department: a house full of geniuses. They ensure that those buyers who are unsure of the attractiveness of a model are reminded, that yes indeed, they are pleasing. To further drive their point home, maybe next time they could have bright neon signs or heck, signs in Braille.
Needless to say, I made a complete jerk of myself in the store. And the employees didn't like me much. My comment of "I'm not getting the support I need, do you have anything in my size?" was met with blank stares. And my asking "Where is the underwear section?" led to my being escorted out. This experience has disproved my deep belief that underwear, no matter what the circumstances, is always funny.