Victoria’s Secret Shames Me

Victoria's Secret Shames Me

Look, I won’t pretend to understand the awkwardness for men when walking into a Vicky’s (that’s what we Columbus folk call Victoria’s Secret since their headquarters is here). Whether it means controlling half a chub or making sure your eyes aren’t fixed on any image for too long, I can’t imagine. For my lovely U.K. readers, what is the equivalent across the pond?

Regardless, I hate going into a Victoria’s Secret, even as a woman. Why? Because you have 10′ high posters of the world’s most beautiful women who are a size 0 but miraculously have watermelon breasts, reminding you that you don’t come close. It’s like their pounty lips and just-fucked hair are saying:

“Look how boobless and flabby you are. Look how amazing I am.”

Bitches.

Getting in to Victoria’s Secret is a challenge all of it’s own as you have to get passed the Greeter (aka the stalker). Their main job is to get you to buy stuff.

“Hello! What brings you in?”

“Would you like to open an angels card? You’ll receive 10% off your first purchase!”

“Check out our band-aid size thongs, 3 for $35”

“Would you like a bag?”

No I don’t want a bag! I love when they ask me if I want a bag. They hand me a bag the size of an Ikea bag and expect me to fill it with all sorts of merchandise. First of all, I’m not a millionaire and second of all, I don’t need a bag to carry around ribbons fashioned into a thong. I mean, the Made In China tag is bigger than the front piece of material sometimes.

And the bras! Let’s talk about the bras for a second. You would think the finest lace from Europe has been imported and hand sewn to create beautiful art pieces for your ta-tas. $55 for a bra? Are you kidding me? Is the underwire gold? And they’re so fucking arrogant about it too because they never lower the price. The only bras I ever find on sale are either size 30A or a 95XYZ.

Sometimes they’ll offer to measure your boobs. Um, no thank you. This is your part-time job during college. Unless your a Tailor, I got this.

‘But X% of women are wearing the wrong size bra’ the so-called experts say.

You want to know why we are wearing the wrong size? Because the only bras we can afford are either size 30A or 95XYZ.

And lastly, checking out is a nightmare. Store staff have carefully framed the check out line with what is known as impulse buys. I mean, it’s borderline ridiculous at this point. Once it’s your turn you must now go through a series of harassment:

“Would you like to open an angels card and save 10%?” They ask. I’ve developed a coping mechanism that is effective on about 75% of Vicky sales associates.

“I have one already.” I respond.

Then they have the gall to counter, “would you like to use it today and save 20%?” Like they don’t believe me and now it’s a dare.

“No.” I say with more force. “I don’t.”

The slap in the face is when you have spent at least $150 and instead of giving you a proper shopping bag that is sturdy with ribbon handles, this ass hole (who is similar to the ketchup Nazi at McDonalds) crams all your lingerie in a  micro-size, plastic shopping bag. That is, after they have wrapped it in 5 sheets of pink tissue. This is a huge pet peeve for me and at this point, I feel like I should be getting comp drinks or something.

So what are your feelings on going into Victoria’s Secret or any place similar to it?

 

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