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Victoria's Secret
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Victoria's Secret I was flipping around the TV channels last night and came across the Victoria's Secret Lingerie Show. Now, I will freely admit that I love women. And women in lingerie are a beautiful sight to behold. But this annual show almost reaches the point of being a charicature. It reminded me of a poem by Billy Collins about a man looking through the Victoria Secret catalog. Victoria's Secret The one in the upper-left-hand corner is giving me a look that says I know you are here and I have nothing better to do for the remainder of human time than return your persistent but engaging stare. She is wearing a deeply scalloped flame-stitch halter top with padded push-up styling and easy side-zip tap pants. The one on the facing page, however, who looks at me over her bare shoulder, cannot hide the shadow of annoyance in her brow. You have interrupted me, she seems to be saying, with your coughing and your loud music. Now please leave me alone; let me finish whatever it was I was doing in my organza-trimmed whisperweight camisole with keyhole closure and point d'esprit mesh back. I wet my thumb and flip the page. Here, the one who happens to be reclining in a satin and lace merry widow with an inset lace-up front, decorated underwire cups and bodice with lace ruffles along the bottom and hook-and-eye closure in the back, is wearing a slightly contorted expression, her head thrust back, mouth partially open, a confusing mixture of pain and surprise as if she had stepped on a tack just as I was breaking down her bedroom door with my shoulder. Nor does the one directly beneath her looking particularly happy to see me. She is arching one eyebrow slightly as if to say, so what if I am wearing nothing but this stretch panne velvet bodysuit with a low sweetheart neckline featuring molded cups and adjustable straps. Do you have a problem with that?! The one on the far right is easier to take, her eyes half-closed as if she were listening to a medley of lullabies playing faintly on a music box. Soon she will drop off to sleep, her head nestled in the soft crook of her arm, and later she will wake up in her Spandex slip dress with the high side slit, deep scoop neckline, elastic shirring, and concealed back zip and vent. But opposite her, stretched out catlike on a couch in the warm glow of a paneled library, is one who wears a distinctly challenging expression, her face tipped up, exposing her long neck, her perfectly flared nostrils. Go ahead, her expression tells me, take off my satin charmeuse gown with a sheer, jacquard bodice decorated with a touch of shimmering Lurex. Go ahead, fling it into the fireplace. What do I care, her eyes say, we're all going to hell anyway. I have other mail to open, but I cannot help noticing her neighbor whose eyes are downcast, her head ever so demurely bowed to the side as if she were the model who sat for Coreggio when he painted "The Madonna of St. Jerome," only, it became so ungodly hot in Parma that afternoon, she had to remove the traditional blue robe and pose there in his studio in a beautifully shaped satin teddy with an embossed V-front, princess seaming to mold the bodice, and puckered knit detail. And occupying the whole facing page is one who displays that expression we have come to associate with photographic beauty. Yes, she is pouting about something, all lower lip and cheekbone. Perhaps her ice cream has tumbled out of its cone onto the parquet floor. Perhaps she has been waiting all day for a new sofa to be delivered, waiting all day in stretch lace hipster with lattice edging, satin frog closures, velvet scrollwork, cuffed ankles, flare silhouette, and knotted shoulder straps available in black, champagne, almond, cinnabar, plum, bronze, mocha, peach, ivory, caramel, blush, butter, rose, and periwinkle. It is, of course, impossible to say, impossible to know what she is thinking, why her mouth is the shape of petulance. But this is already too much. Who has the time to linger on these delicate lures, these once unmentionable things? Life is rushing by like a mad, swollen river. One minute roses are opening in the garden and the next, snow is flying past my window. Plus the phone is ringing. The is whining at the door. Rain is beating on the roof. And as always there is a list of things I have to do before the night descends, black and silky, and the dark hours begin to hurtle by, before the little doors of the body swing shut and I ride to sleep, my closed eyes still burning from all the glossy lights of day |
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interesting poem. I avoid that show every year, it just propels the epidemic of eating disorders and self esteem problems for all women ! though I do LOVE to shop there 
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