A BAD DAY AT VICTORIAS SECRET
There comes a time in ones life, where you realise you've gone past the point of no return.
I'm sitting on the floor in the changing room of the Victorias Secret in New York. I'm in a foreign country and I've come lingerie shopping on my own because I'm on holiday with my parents and that's not appropriate.
A shrill, super sweet voice comes through the curtains.
"Are you alright in there hun? Need any sizes?"
"... No thanks! Totes fine!"
This is a lie.
In a foolish attempt at being seductive, I had wandered into VS because I had promised my BF at the time that I'd come back from holiday with something saucy for him.
In no way was I prepared for the explosion of lace and pink frills and pictures of tiny women with massive tits staring at me from every wall.
As someone with a sizeable arse and carrying some hella awkward American Holiday weight, I was in way over my head.
Now, the thing about me is that I LOVE buying underwear. It makes me feel good, I have far too many pairs, and I normally wear some kind of over the top lace contraption most days (Sorry to my chacha), so when I promised the BF that I would buy something sexy - you have to understand that I was under immense pressure to step. it. up.
These tiny bras and g bangers were just not instilling the right WOW factor that I was after.
Sensing my panic, a salesgirl latches on to me and we spend the better part of 15 minutes discussing the exact 'effect' and 'mood' that I was going for. Seductive, but not quite porn star was the vibe, apparently.
"Wait here babes, I've got the perfect thing."
Look, I trusted this girl. She was perky as all hell and had a slamming bod and to be honest, she was making me feel so good about myself - like, she needed a raise. I felt like Rihanna. Bad gal RiRi.
She returns with this massive grin on her face, and a pile of lavender.. string? Lace? I'm not quite sure.
It's a one piece 'bodysuit' with cut outs and lace inserts and looks insanely elaborate. It was meant to go with stockings and heels, Barbie tells me (I named her Barbie, sorry this isn't her real name).
I had no clue about American sizing so I blindly put my faith in Barbie and went into the room. After hoisting the torture device an awkwardly far amount up my arse, I begun to maybe think I had made a small mistake.
Right now it's sitting somewhere around my belly button and squishing my skin into the most unflattering display of bad decisions, I can practically see the hot dogs and pizza in there.
Holy shit, what do I do? My bum is clearly eating this material but do I try and get it fully on? Maybe it's better on, like it will balance out?
An embarrassing amount of time later, I had pulled the top up over my boobs and it was technically on. I was almost too frightened to look in the mirror.
Looking back at me was a version of myself that I didn't recognise.
"Barbie, I'm gonna be upfront with you here - this is not the seductive look we were after. I look somewhat like a pork chop."
This was absolutely not going to work, it had to come off immediately because my self esteem was taking a serious blow and I had barely enough to walk into the shop in the first place.
... Okay so how do I get it off.
Never in my life had I felt such panic. The amount of stretching and reaching my tiny t-rex arms around to try and pry the material off my sweaty body, should honestly have counted as Olympic grade Gymnastics.
Sitting on the floor, lace so far up my butt I can taste it, on the brink of a full on melt down, I thought to myself. I have two options. I either accept fate and my new life where this porno outfit lives on me forever. Or, I rip it the fuck off.
Maybe it was the adrenaline coursing through my veins, or just the fact that there was a part of me that always wanted to be The Hulk - I found that ripping lace was easier than I thought. Full of shame and regret, I gingerly placed the torn shreds of the bodysuit on the counter.
"I don't want to talk about it. I'll pay for it."
The look that Barbie gave me gave the indication that this exact scenario happened more often than she'd care to admit. The worst part was the fact that I had not bothered to check the price before haphazardly flinging it off my rolly body.
"That'll be $79.99 thanks."
$79.99. American. I had spent approximately $114 New Zealand dollars on ripping my self esteem to pieces.
On the walk of shame home, I stopped at Dunkin Donuts and stuffed sugary donut holes in my mouth while sending my BF a text.
Do not ever ask me to wear lingerie ever again, you giant twat.