Victoria's Secret

I like to think I'm adult enough to buy my own underwear. Mom, Aly, and I used to get VS coupons in the mail. One free panty or $10 off any bra. That kind of stuff. I'd be excited, right up until we'd walk through the shop door. Something about the suit and high-heel clad sales girls made me embarrassed to be there. They were older, more polished, and probably wearing thongs. There was power in their shiny hair and lip-glossed mouths; power I will probably never tap into.
So we'd lurk around the 5 for $25 underpants, quietly selecting white, black, nude, light pink, or beige cotton briefs while sales girls hovered and mannequins managed to slink around without moving. The selection would be made and I'd hurry to pay and get the heck out of there.
And the bags! I hate carrying around a Victoria Secret bag. The shiny, shocking pink isn't exactly an unassuming color. Everybody knows where you got your purchase. Not only where, but what. I hate how eyes flick from the tart pink bag to me. I know, they know, I know they know. We know that I purchased underwear. And it's not like I can stop everyone on the way to the car and say, "It's not what you think! It's just a pair of sensible cotton briefs!" For all they know it could be one of those black shoelaces with pompoms on it that, when wadded up, could fit in a film canister.
Anyway, I'm finally off to the mall. (The Mall!) We'll probably walk past a Victoria's Secret and I'll subtly walk a little faster with my eyes averted. TTFN.