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penfieldTo celebrate the 512th anniversary of Christopher Columbus inventing Democracy at Plymouth Rock, J. and I decided to go shopping at Pentagon City mall. It was the first time in a long while that I had gone shopping with a woman. I had forgotten all about wandering through stores like Banana Republic[1] looking for a safe place to lean and trudging from the fitting room through the hallway to display my "outfit" to another person for evaluation purposes. It was fun, in a anthropological "this is what normal people do" sort of way.
Our last stop was Victoria's Secret, the world's most famous advocate for the paramount importance of underwear. They are absolutely obsessed with it, in a way that transcends mere commerce. They have devoted countless miles and manhours to incalculable varieties of something as prosaic as underpants. Right now, somewhere in a North Dakota bunker, there are Victoria's Secret scientists conducting experiments, doing things with cleavage that we as a society are not ready for yet. They desperately want our genitals to be comfortable[2].
And this could probably only happen with women's underwear. A man's underwear store would be about a six foot cube. The racks would have three varieties, four sizes and maybe six colors. And this is after the development of the boxer brief, an innovation that ten years ago represented a seismic shift in guy underwear technology and the most significant innovation in guydom since the power drill. Men would walk into this store and walk out of it thirty seconds later. Women, meanwhile, can spend up to an entire ovulation cycle in Victoria's Secret pondering bikini vs. low-rise panties[3].
Still, I was sort of excited to have a reason to go inside -- not because J. was shopping for anything particularly exotic, but because Victoria's Secret represents the nexus of the feminine mystique, a veritable inner sanctum. It was also reassuring to have Jessica along as my underwear sherpa, since any guy who dares to go into the store unescorted by a female receives the same sort of treatment as would a Saudi cleric boarding a 747: askance gazes, nervous twitching and occasional fleeing. Even with a chaperone, those women engrossed in the shopping process take a moment to assess my presence.
The thing is, they're right to be wary of me, and I know exactly why: Because I can't help picturing each person wearing the garment they're looking at. I am, essentially, imagining these women in their underwear. There's nothing prurient about it, necessarily -- although the more genetically blessed patrons may occasionally suffer that indignity as well. It's just my idle brain, silently filling in the blanks with inappropriate images. It's the visual equivalent of Mad Libs.
I don't know if it's just me that does this. It could be that I'm a pervert. I can say that this phenomenon is not limited to underwear havens; when I was a clerk at Heberle's Farm Market, I routinely conjured up fanciful scenarios of my customers preparing and eating the very food I was scanning. I cannot deny sitting in silent judgment over the people who, in my opinion, enjoyed zucchini squash to unhealthy degrees. And it works the other way. Each time I go to the grocery store, I feel compelled to make or deny certain purchases based on what the checkout person will think of me. There were times when my entire weekly vegetable intake was based purely on checkout line guilt. And now, the advent of self-checkout machines at my local Harris Teeter grocery store will surely be the undoing of my dietary health.
So anyway, to all the women out there whose privacy I have inadvertently violated, I wish to apologize. Most of you looked fine. In the future, I will try to confine my Victoria's Secret activities to my shopping companion or the catalog that mysteriously and regularly appears in my mailbox. I will try not to get in your way, or make eye contact, or even look anywhere but the floor. As long as I can find a safe place to lean.
Our last stop was Victoria's Secret, the world's most famous advocate for the paramount importance of underwear. They are absolutely obsessed with it, in a way that transcends mere commerce. They have devoted countless miles and manhours to incalculable varieties of something as prosaic as underpants. Right now, somewhere in a North Dakota bunker, there are Victoria's Secret scientists conducting experiments, doing things with cleavage that we as a society are not ready for yet. They desperately want our genitals to be comfortable[2].
And this could probably only happen with women's underwear. A man's underwear store would be about a six foot cube. The racks would have three varieties, four sizes and maybe six colors. And this is after the development of the boxer brief, an innovation that ten years ago represented a seismic shift in guy underwear technology and the most significant innovation in guydom since the power drill. Men would walk into this store and walk out of it thirty seconds later. Women, meanwhile, can spend up to an entire ovulation cycle in Victoria's Secret pondering bikini vs. low-rise panties[3].
Still, I was sort of excited to have a reason to go inside -- not because J. was shopping for anything particularly exotic, but because Victoria's Secret represents the nexus of the feminine mystique, a veritable inner sanctum. It was also reassuring to have Jessica along as my underwear sherpa, since any guy who dares to go into the store unescorted by a female receives the same sort of treatment as would a Saudi cleric boarding a 747: askance gazes, nervous twitching and occasional fleeing. Even with a chaperone, those women engrossed in the shopping process take a moment to assess my presence.
The thing is, they're right to be wary of me, and I know exactly why: Because I can't help picturing each person wearing the garment they're looking at. I am, essentially, imagining these women in their underwear. There's nothing prurient about it, necessarily -- although the more genetically blessed patrons may occasionally suffer that indignity as well. It's just my idle brain, silently filling in the blanks with inappropriate images. It's the visual equivalent of Mad Libs.
I don't know if it's just me that does this. It could be that I'm a pervert. I can say that this phenomenon is not limited to underwear havens; when I was a clerk at Heberle's Farm Market, I routinely conjured up fanciful scenarios of my customers preparing and eating the very food I was scanning. I cannot deny sitting in silent judgment over the people who, in my opinion, enjoyed zucchini squash to unhealthy degrees. And it works the other way. Each time I go to the grocery store, I feel compelled to make or deny certain purchases based on what the checkout person will think of me. There were times when my entire weekly vegetable intake was based purely on checkout line guilt. And now, the advent of self-checkout machines at my local Harris Teeter grocery store will surely be the undoing of my dietary health.
So anyway, to all the women out there whose privacy I have inadvertently violated, I wish to apologize. Most of you looked fine. In the future, I will try to confine my Victoria's Secret activities to my shopping companion or the catalog that mysteriously and regularly appears in my mailbox. I will try not to get in your way, or make eye contact, or even look anywhere but the floor. As long as I can find a safe place to lean.
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Riding the Pine
Date: 2005-10-12 02:31 am (UTC)As for your Victoria's Secret shopping experience, I admire you for actually going in the store and not joining all the pathetic husbands on the bench of shame. I'm always amused by the cast of characters sitting on that bench which is so conveniently placed outside the lingerie stores. The guys always sit there in perfect silence, avoiding eye contact with anyone passing by. Funny, you never see groups of women all sitting together on a bench outside the big-screen TV store.
Re: Riding the Pine
Date: 2005-10-12 01:16 pm (UTC)Re: Riding the Pine
Date: 2005-10-12 02:18 pm (UTC)Re: Riding the Pine
Date: 2005-10-18 01:36 pm (UTC)