You're In "Sexy, Sexy, Sexy"

The epiphany season runs between January sixth and Mardi Gras. For most Americans this means nothing, but last year one of our friends introduced us to the vast celebration that is the epiphany season in Europe. In this season special cakes, which translate as "kings cakes," are brought to and consumed at as many parties as can be crammed into the days that run between epiphany and Mardi Gras. These cakes are special in that they contain within them an object, sometimes a plastic baby, other times an almond or cherry, that is representative of the baby Jesus.

The cake is consumed and whoever gets the "baby" is king and even gets to wear a crown for the night. That individual is also responsible for throwing the next party. This year was our second annual observation of epiphany. It came in handy too as Christmas proper was hectic and stressful. We were able to hold off on finding gifts for each other until the sixth. As was cited in earlier posts in this blog, extra days are a good thing for a slow shopper like me. Naturally, then, epiphany is a pretty cool thing.

By January fifth I knew exactly what I wanted to get my wife for Christmas and I forged out to attain the loot following work that day (yes I'm aware that was a Saturday, I had to work as my office merged with another). All the gifts were easy enough to attain and I even threw in a box of truffles as garnish. I was doing well dragging my slow shopper feet all through the stores when I came to the fated item on the list, the bra.

Normally, this would not be so bad, yes it is a male looking for a bra, but that can be handled with a little finesse and besides, I figure I'm married now and that should give me an air tight reason to be rifling through bras at the department store. However, I realized that I was still harboring a few bacheloresk thoughts and aside of all of this still more, my wife's favorite bras originate from none other than "Victoria's Secret."

This created the real dilemma. Before, seeking out the perfect bra could be done almost undetected with the correct placement and timing. In any given department store it would have been easy to mask my intentions. The plan would be simple. A safe, unquestionable beginning in the men's section, perhaps looking at pants, I may even try a pair on to further shape the illusion and throw off any seasoned personal shoppers who may have caught that, "looking for wife" glint in my eye on the way in. I would then slowly proceed toward the women's section, not directly or even with an interest in anything in particular, no, this would be played out as an accident.

I would work through the polos, to the ties and finally, while sizing up the perfect belt to go with that suit I have at home, I would get a glimpse of some female apparel. Nothing scandalous, just something. Perhaps the men's belt rack joins the women's midway. It could happen to any normal male searching for a belt, an innocent belt, functional in my case as they actually do hold my pants up (I realized the other week that I'm actually a 31'' and not 32'').

The sight of some womens accessory would undoubtedly cause me to think of my wife and then to think of what she may like. From that point it would be a hop skip and a jump to the bras where I could gaze at them from a safe distance nonchalantly snuggled between the women's blazer rack. Blazers are always a safe bet, they're more masculine than feminine from the start, and what more ironic cover to have while secretly searching for arguably one of the most feminine pieces of apparel?

However, this perfectly formulated, fool proof plan finds itself utterly obsolete as one stands before the shoplifting scanners of "Victoria's Secret." As I mentally prepared myself to venture into the store, I realized that not only had I never crossed the threshold of a "Victoria's Secret," but I don't ever recall looking directly at one when the store happened to be in sight. I was crossing this line, though, as I gazed into the store searching for an avenue which would take me across yet another line I'd never crossed, that being the threshold of the store itself.

I calmed myself by allowing a thought run through my mind that there would be other guys in the store and I wouldn't be alone. However, I was hard pressed to pick any out at the moment. Those males who were in the store, as I found out, were with a girl, all of them snuggled close behind their female counterparts so that I was even unable to stand near a couple with hopes that an onlooker may be confused as to which male the nearest female was with, and therefore give up wondering about it at all.

To make matters worse, the store was packed. If this wasn't difficult enough, though, it was post Christmas, which meant sales, which meant clearance, which constituted large bins of stock. I was about to walk into a room full of women shoulder deep in bras and panties. Suddenly, epiphany was not very cool, I, the slow shopper had gambled with my indecision of gift giving to buy more time and I had lost.

I was hit by a car while biking once. I let this thought drop through my mind like a chaser to lighten the blow, held my breath, picked out the far right hand corner and damn it, I walked. I made it to the corner without incident and to my grace, the corner was fully stocked with bras. I was scared, but I kept chanting in my mind like a mantra, "you're just a sweet husband doing this for his wife." This soothed me for a time until the fear got the best of me and I began to realize how I was dressed. As I mentioned before, it was a Saturday and I went into work to help the office move. Moving meant getting dirty, and the potential of getting dirty meant ultra casual, borderline grungy clothes. At this moment, I realized that I looked nothing like a sweet, lower middle class husband caring for his wife. I was somewhere between a "Nirvana" groupie and a Chicago bike messenger.

If I was taken for the messenger, I would be categorized as weird as the biking community at large, including the females, stereotypically does not spend its spare time shopping for underwear at "Victoria's Secret." On the other hand, the only "Nirvana" fans that go to VS are either A, mocking the store, or B, plain old perverts. I was in a lot of trouble.

It was then that a voice was thrown in my direction, "can I help you sir?" A floor clerk had picked me out and, though I should have just run at this point, surprisingly, I became bold. "Yes" I said with clarity. "I am looking for a bra for my wife." I did not realize it until now, but I held the, "looking for my wife" trump, which deflects feelings of, "we think you're weird." I got into it at this point, I explained that I wanted a bra that was suited for normal use, therefore comfortable, but was not simply plain. This bra needed to give the wearer comfort, while also making them feel pretty. I had done it, I was confronted and I turned it back around on them as a challenge.

"We have those, but not in this section," was the reply. "Yes, you're in the 'Sexy, Sexy, Sexy' section." This one broadsided me. I looked up and to my surprise that was the actual name. For a moment I was lost, "'Sexy' three times," I thought. What, is VC now attempting to utilize that old Hebraic literary device in which something is iterated three times to ultra emphasize a point. Was this supposed to be some sick allusion back to Isaiah's writing of the angels' chanting, "Holy, Holy, Holy?" I stopped, though. I figured the quickest way out was to find out where I needed to be, buy the bra and leave, I could always write a letter or something later.