Victoria's Secret Service

BU Senior Week meant many things, not the least of which included the famous Senior Ball. A night of formalwear, cocktails, swanky hotel ballrooms...and the inevitable fear of panty lines. Thus, the day before the big event, I found myself with Mellie and Heather in the Copley Mall's Victoria's Secret. The excursion was precursured by my past experiences in VS (look at me, using the abbreviation like me and Victoria are old gal pals).

I have a flash back to high school, when Heath and I needed strapless bras for prom gowns. I was 17, had previously only shopped for underwear at Target, but really just needed a G.D. strapless: not a revamped personality or an image change. None-the-less, Heath and I walk our high school selves into the Garden City Vickie's (what? sometimes I call her Vickie...) and ask the black suit-clad sales girl. "Hi, we need some strapless bras, please." She dramatically pulled at the measuring tape draped around her neck and pursed her super glossed lips. "Well ladiessss" she started, hissing her "s" for a full 15 seconds, "how about we jusssst take a trip to the VERY SSSSEXY ssssection?" I looked at Heath, and it was over. We stood in the store and cracked up like a couple of idiots. And I'm pretty sure I wore a Target bra to the prom.

Flash forward: I am a mature, soon to be college grad. I am cosmopolitan, chic, and still the biggest freaking goofball in this hemisphere. So, as I walked into the Boston store, I had a sinking fear that I would repeat my cackle-fest of '02. I walk in, biting my lip and repeating my "be mature" mantra in my head. Of course, as soon as I put my right toenail into the door, there are 3 black suits approaching me to ask if I need help with anything. They move in with incredible speed, especially considering they're all wearing five inch stilettos, and all of them are speaking into their headsets. It is then that I realize: I am in the presence of Victoria's Secret Service. I put on an obviously awkward face as I contemplate the practical necessity of needing a headset to sell people underwear. The first one to reach me is an eager looking brunette. She casually asks if I need help, as if she happened to coincidentally run into me at the front of the store (even though I just witnessed her snap her associate in the face with the strap of an Ipex push up to get to me first). "Hi, yes, I would like a pair of seamless underwear." I say, partially whispering because I'm still embarrassed to talk about underwear, even though there are provocative life sized manequins wearing underwear all around me. She purses her lips and takes off, leading me to a long white table full of panties that are apparently different styles, but look exactly the same to me. She shows me the "seamless" pair and I eye them, knowing damn well my ass is not going to squeeze into them any easier than you can parallel park a Hummer on Comm Ave (blindfolded). I take a few seconds to contemplate the purchase, and look up when I see my tour guide adjust her headset and listen to the latest APB. "Excuse me," she urgently says, a look of panic passing over her face, "just let me know if I can help you-- TARA! PLEASE COME TO THE VERY SEXY SECTION IMMEDIATELY!!" I see the country's terror alert go from magenta to explosive red- this is a serious issue, people. I can't say what actually happened since I could only hear one end of the conversation, but I imagined it was something HUGE: a revolutionary uprising among the thongs, a rebel faction of Very Sexy bras invading the hoisery...I could only think of the worst, and hope that the black suits were on task.

Realizing my own salesperson had to defend Victoria and could not assist me with my growing confusion over what actually constituted a seam, I decided to wander. I weaved in and out of countless tables full of $12 underwear until I realized I was in a new section. New to this store is their cooperation with the Italian lingere line "Intimissimi" and being a language nerd, I decide to check out that half of the store. I am met, appropriately, by a stick think blonde with a European accent. I present Svetlana with my predicament: I am clueless, larger than a size 2 and need seamless underwear for a formal--tomorrow. She briskly walks to a small drawer and pulls out cloth made of bright orange silk. She brandishes what looks like a handkerchief colored to resemble a roadside caution cone. "Ah-K...vell, zis is ze only color ve haaave in ze seamless pah-nties." I blink to adjust my retinas to the glaring color. I decide my dress is dark enough to handle them, but ask her if there is another size. "Ahh...yes...zis is ze European medium...you vill need at least... large?" She yanks a larger, but still equally bright piece of cloth from the drawer. I take my new purchase, reasoning that they can always double as a light source in case we lose power, and make my way to the checkout in the Republic of Victoria section.

As I hand over my last $7, I glance over the store, watching as the black suits patrol the area like worker ants. A feeling of tranquility rushes over me: the uprising in the Very Sexy section has calmed. Peace is restored among the warring thongs and briefs. They realized that they are all just overpriced panties, and that they should unite in their similarities, being both Victoria dwellers. And at least for the moment, there is calm: for this we have the Victoria's Secret Service to thank. Without their black suited, headset-clad, ever-presence, this would be absolute anarchy...allowing people to just independently chose their underwear...I mean, it would be like, well, Target.