My annual Yuletide purchasing ritual began when I reached the third floor of
Eaton's—the Ladies' Undergarments and Hosiery Department. My mother's wish list
was firmly in hand (yes, a list—we're a very progressive family). At the top of
the list: a new "silk nightgown or something like that."
This was a scary prospect, but, nonetheless, something I had to do, because mom is mom,
and right now she's probably doing my Christmas shopping and, whenever I don't adhere to
her list, she quits doing my laundry.
So, there I was, going through the racks, trying not to look too obvious about the whole
affair, when a saleslady, adorned in all her cosmetic glory and hair extensions, glided up
to me.
"Can I help you, dear?" she asked.
"Uhm, no thanks. I'm just looking."
"For what, dear?" she asked, beginning to belittle me. Things never
change—when you look like a kid, you're treated like a kid.
Gee lady, let's see. I'm surrounded by bras and teddies. What does it look
like I'm looking for? A maple syrup spigot?
She looked at me as if for some reason I had gotten lost on my way to Beddings, Home
Electronics, or some other, more "appropriate" department—as if the lingerie
department was a sacred shrine of lace and garters, never to be seen by innocent eyes such
as mine.
The Ivanka Trump look-a-like here soon realised that a waffle iron, or pillow case, or
Isotoner slippers were not on my shopping list, so she decided to show me some more
"items".
"This piece here, is what we call a three-quarter length negligee. Made in
France. Women like it a lot. And here, we have a nice half-length number from Donna
Karan, machine-washable."
At this stage, I loved the way she grabbed each piece of underwear, looked to make sure we
were alone, and carefully put each up against a mannequin. It was as if she thought
that at this age, I had no idea what was what and what went where.
Anyway, 20 minutes passed. We must have seen about 50 or so different garments.
With each one, I re-learned something about female anatomy and what Ivanka called
"support architecture." I must admit that I really got into all of
this—that is, looking for something nice to buy for mom. (But Ivanka feared I was
getting into something else altogether.)
As I was admiring more clothing, feeling between my fingers the quality of the fabrics,
Ivanka raised her left eyebrow and stepped back ever so slightly. Oh great, I
thought to myself. First she thought I was lost, then she thought I had never seen a
woman before, and now she thinks I'm a cross-dressing pervert, dying to get on Jerry
Springer and use Eaton's name in retail-forsaken vain.
Funny how I was being looked at as a pervert, while nobody felt anything was wrong with
the middle-aged nativity scene window decorators who dressed up the Three Wise Men in
almost full sheer pajamas for the new Calvin Klein collection.
My palms turned clammy, my forehead got sweaty, and my pulse quickened. All I wanted
to do was buy a stupid gift for mom, but here I was, my every action being psychoanalysed.
But I didn't really give Ivanka the satisfaction. I was buying lingerie for my
mother, and I was damn proud of it. So I finally settled on a light blue silk
nightgown from something called "The House of Guenevere."
"With every purchase of $50 or more, you get a free tote bag. Did you know
that?"
Oh goody, I thought to myself, she probably wants me to get that so I can shove the
nightgown in it and keep my inappropriate habits secret from the public.
"Let me see if I can find one for you, dear. You wait here. Don't go
anywhere."
Geez. What was I? A cocker spaniel? But of course, since she already
thought I was a freak, better not tempt me to roam the entire department and eventually
get into the hosiery section.
On her way back, Ivanka grabbed me gently by the arm and took me over to the cash
register. Yup, make sure I don't knock anything down. You know how unruly us
hyper-sexual teenagers can be when we see so many naked mannequins.
"And how will you be paying for this today, dear?"
"American Express," I grumbled.
She carefully examined the card, ran it through the terminal, and then looked at her
screen for a second. I bet she was trying to remember my phone number so she could
call mom and tell her what a bad boy I'd been.
"Thank you for shopping at Eaton's. Merry Christmas."
"Yeeeeeah, whatever." As I walked out of the store, the salespeople all
started staring and whispering.
But I didn't care. At least mom will be getting a nice gift, my laundry will get
done, and I'll have plenty of experience when it comes time to do this all over again.
Oh dear God, all over again... Somebody please spike the eggnog!
Eddy Elmer will provide detailed maps of the women's undergarments department at
Eaton's for any interested holiday shoppers.
Copyright © 1995, by Eddy M. Elmer
Permanent URL: http://www.eddyelmer.com/articles/momut.htm