Throughout the years we have had quite the relationship. I think the best way to describe that relationship would be the “only a little abusive” boyfriend. You know, the one that your friends might really like, if they could just understand how much he really DOES love you? Yes, I think that’s the one.
Your bras have always been named according to the effect they are intended to produce (or so I assume). There’s the “Very Sexy,” and the “Perfect Shape.” If by “Perfect Shape,” you mean, “your breasts will be shaped like a boot,” mission accomplished. Your “push-up” bras are truly a wondrous creation when I am practicing mannequin impersonations. When I’m really nailing that mannequin pose, standing tall with my back completely straight, and my arms hanging casually yet purposefully at my sides, I can feel that my boobs are elevated just right, and for a moment, I feel as though my breasts are the shining stars of my body that they were always meant to be. Unfortunately, when I am forced to go back to being a regular human being, the push up does not seem to work as well. It seems my breasts go right back to their preferred shapes, which are sock puppets. One day I plan to parlay these sock puppets into an actual show, just like Shari Lewis did with Lamb Chop. That broad died a millionaire. That lamb, however, found her final resting place at an Outback Steakhouse.
Since you have never sold anything larger than 38, I can’t shop in your stores with most of my friends, but that’s their fault for not fitting into your bras, right? So whenever I want to go there, I just tell them to wait at McDonald’s and I will meet them there when I’m done. Or maybe Lane Bryant will be having a sale, and they can occupy themselves there instead. While shopping in one of your stores recently, I had the privilege of feeling young again, being referred affectionately to as “girl,” at least a dozen times. Although I told one of your darling employees with the limited vocabulary that I only wanted to purchase one bra that day, she proceeded to explain to me how I needed to buy TWO bras that day, because DUH, it would be cheaper. I am still not sure how spending seventy-five dollars on two ill-fitting bras is cheaper than spending forty dollars on just one ill-fitting bra, but it’s ok. I get it. I too once worked in your stores. I understand how the constant inhalation of all those fragrances with monikers such as “Enchanted Garden,” and “Sexy Sweet Talk” can begin to cloud your judgment and make you believe that you are, in fact, somewhere in an enchanted garden talking some sexy sweet talk.
I used to love receiving your catalogues in the mail. There was nothing like seeing a model twice my height and half my circumference lounging carelessly next to a fireplace, wearing nothing but Uggs and a cashmere button-down sweater, to finally help me decide what I wanted for Christmas. The perfectly toned model would have one of your bras on underneath, of course, showing just enough chicken-cutlet enhanced cleavage to simultaneously suggest “I haven’t eaten a carb since I was a toddler,” and “your body fat percentage can also be the ideal four percent, if you just buy this bra.” Curiously, despite the idyllic lifestyle that the models seemed to be living in the catalogues, I never saw any of them pictured eating anything. I would have speculated that with your $4 billion per year profits, you would have some money left over to feed your models, but I can see how you might have more important budget priorities. I’m sure food for your employees is among the first things to go during an economic recession.
Now, about that fabulous holiday fashion show. Nothing helps me get into the holiday spirit more than seeing nearly naked bodies that don’t exist in nature bouncing around to the tunes of Taylor Swift. The show is also an excellent opportunity to demonstrate that the talents of your models are not strictly limited to skimpy lingerie, but also extend to balancing giant wings, the equivalent of their own height and weight, on their backs. All of this done without breaking a sweat of course. If that airbrushed spray tan were to get wet and start dripping off, it would be disastrous. I will never forget the inspiring year that Heidi Klum walked the runway less than six weeks after giving birth. Her vagina may have just expelled a baby much like in the movie Alien, but that didn’t stop her from taking the time to remind us Earthlings of our inefficiency at getting our post-baby bodies back. Thank you, Heidi, for being so brave.
But most importantly, thank YOU, Victoria’s Secret. My self-confidence would not be what it is today without you.