It was 2007/2008 and I was still shopping at Victoria’s Secret and wearing their uber-padded 36B bras (the size they put me in). I’ve always said that Victoria’s Secret doesn’t really sell lingerie; they sell sexy. And for some reason that weekend, I got the notion to be “sexy” for my then-boyfriend.
I bought a lace and patent leather balconette bra with coordinating garter belt, knickers, and stockings. Scandalous, skimpy, and disturbingly flimsy, this set embodied what I thought other people thought was sexy at the time. The model in the catalog certainly made it look sexy, and I bought into the promise that buying the lingerie she was wearing would make me sexy too. And wasn’t this the sort of thing guys were into anyway?
Returning home with my purchase, I spent the rest of the evening getting ready. Bath, lotion, hair, and makeup…I wanted to be immaculate from head to toe. After several hours of prep work, it was finally time to put on the lingerie. I’m sure I fumbled with the garter clasps, and I remember being terrified that my hands would rip the nylon stockings (I practiced martial arts at the time so my fingers were not delicate). I also remember feeling quite uncomfortable in the get-up and very much not like me. But it would all be worth it if the ex thought I was sexy, right? Right.
Throwing my winter coat over the ensemble and buttoning it up to the neck, I drove (carefully) over to his house, heart fluttering nervously. Even more careful steps up his driveway in my too-high heels (wouldn’t be sexy to tip over in the lawn), a quick ring of the doorbell, and I was inside and ready for the big reveal. Holding my breath in anticipation, I flung my coat open and showed him my brand new lingerie.
A moment passed.
And then another.
And another.
And then he laughed.
Not a nervous chuckle. Not a surprised giggle. I mean a full blown belly laugh followed by (between ragged gasps of air) “You look ridiculous!”