Once upon a time, there was a place that I went to when I wanted to feel beautiful. Its portals were crafted from dark, glossy, burgundy wood. They were the gateway into another world - a world of beauty, in which the sounds of the London Symphony Orchestra drifted about me like a delicate garment. My fingers would brush the lightest, softest fabrics. In my imagination there is the subtle fragrance of Spring Rain, although I can't be sure this was so: I often visited Crabtree & Evelyn first. And while I may have spent my afternoon running from place to place, that stopped when I walked through the door.
"Darling, but what is the hurry?" she would whisper as I held a creamy rose camisole. "We do not rush here...beauty never rushes." And so I would slow down, allowing my senses to take everything in. The matching chocolate satin brassiere and panties. The sheer black nylons. The soft cotton nightgown. Ah, the demi cup bra in pale rose. As soon as I decided to try it on, one of her muses would appear beside me, a measuring tape around her neck.
Visits to Victoria's Secret were uplifting, but that doesn't fully encompass what they meant to me. The imaginary Victoria was the emblem of sophistication: well read, mysterious, very sensuous. She made me want to be better than I was. She didn't make me feel less. She made me feel more.
And when I couldn't visit, there was her catalogue: colorful, glossy pictures of curvy models like Frederique donned beautiful lingerie in idyllic settings. Always tasteful. I would save each issue until the next one came. After I had my first child, my browsing took on a more wistful approach. I collected them as inspiration until I could once again fit into the fashions. Then came child number two, and visits to Victoria's Secret became less frequent, although I would still purchase a nightgown here, and the CD music collection there, in a modest effort to keep her a part of my life. By the time child number three appeared, I am sorry to say I had lost all contact with Victoria. I was too busy, too scattered to give her much thought. I don't think I even noticed when the catalogue stopped showing up. It just...disappeared.
And so did she.
I am sorry to say that for a long time I really didn't give her much thought, until the day I arrived unannounced for a visit and discovered that an impostor had taken her place. This chit angled herself in lewd contortions, her countenance sporting the half-lidded pout favored by gentleman's magazines. There were bins where one could purchase four panties for $20. Bony mannequins sporting thongs were posed, adjacent to polka dotted stuffed pooches in the storefront windows. Had the merchandise been displayed in an unmarked warehouse, it would have been impossible to tell it apart from that of Frederick's without checking the label. A wretched imitation, this Victoria had never read a great novel. She'd never heard of Mozart. She didn't know sensual; she didn't even seem to have the intelligence to grasp subtle. She was Eliza Doolittle before, although I rather credit Eliza with more class.
Where did she go? And who shall we call into account for her untimely disappearance? The consumer? Culture? Was there a generation in there that decided declasse and vulgar were going to be the provocative ideal? I missed it.
Oh Victoria, please come back! I miss you and I know I can not be the only one. You once filled a role in the life of a woman. You were sensual. You were beautiful. You would have been an inspiration to my daughters.
The other day I passed what was at one time my favorite store. I couldn't help it; I glanced up into the storefront, to a larger than life portrait of a woman who appeared to be in a relatively pleasurable state. Her lips were open in a in a dumfounded pout, her eyes were half closed, and she was spilling out of her bra. I wondered for the millionth time if anyone has explained to the CEO the difference between provocative and pretty versus embarassing. I glanced away in time to catch a little girl, about four, walking with her family from the opposite direction. She was staring at the storefront with the kind of intensity I see in children when they are completely focused on some activity. Teachers try to induce this state in the classroom because this is when the brain creates new neuropathways, hence learning takes place.
I looked away.
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