Victoria's Real Secret

I don't know if you experience the Oh-My-God-He-Bought-Me-Lingerie-for-Christmas-Again syndrome this time of year, but it hits this house about every second or third year.

Don't get me wrong.

The sentiment is wonderful. (Not to mention that I am sure in giving you the expensive lingerie, most husbands think they might get a little sumpin-sumpin).

And, it isn't the giving of the lingerie that is the part that gets to me.

It is the fact that most husbands love the slutty, uncomfortable kind. (That would make even hooker's blush).

You know....the cut-off-your-circulation thongs, the bras with the cut-outs in the worst places, and the garter belt dealies. (What IS IT about men and garter belts?) (It is my theory that they all must only have been able to afford the old porn films when they were adolesents...you know...the Mrs. Robinson kind, where ladies wore garters and nylons and slowly, seductively rolled them down, one-at-a-time.....whilst the young, pimply boys drool while they watched).

But the real kicker is that when you unwrap this lingerie (that they have lovingly picked out for you)....you realize (in horror) that they have bought you (every single time): Size 2's.

Bless their heart that they think you would EVER fit into that size.( I may have.......back when I was in first grade.)

But, more than likely, husbands don't even look at the size. Once they see the lingerie on the rack, they probably glaze over (like a dog in heat) and grab it and buy it, with visions of Sugar Plums in their heads.

So, there you are...Christmas Eve....the only lights on are the Christmas tree lights and the fireplace glow....and he pulls out your gift, grinning that Cheashire cat grin you know so well. You immediately recognize "the look" and you immediately know what is in that he-no-way-in-Hell-wrapped-this-himself poofy package.

And, of course.....as you spot the Size 2 label...here......
it........
comes............................
....he says:
"Honey, why don't you try it on to see how you like it?
(Translation: "Why don't you try it on, cause I KNOW I'M GOING to like it". Can ya, huh? Can ya'??? Can ya? Puh-leeeeeeeeze?")

So, first...you don on the encased-in-steel underwire push-up bra with the indecent cut outs.

You pray to God for a miracle that the sliver-thin back hooks have the holding-power of those infom-merical wall hooks that hold up a cement block and 40-wheelers. You tuck in your arms to your side so the under-arm fat doesn't hang over like large saddle bags.

Then you strap on the garter belt, which means sucking in your breath as much as possible and tucking in flesh like putting bread dough into a sausage-casing.

Never mind that you can't breathe (and that your intestines are squished so tight that there will be absoloutely no digestion going on for the next two weeks and that as soon as you do this, it backed up and caused a little unpleasant taste in the back of your throat).

Next, you roll excruciatingly-painful nylons up your thunder thighs and try to walk cute (but careful, so they don't roll down into tootsie-rolls as you do this).

Actually, it is quite a talent to be able to do this, so give yourself a high-five for being able to do this feat. (What was I thinking?....you CAN'T do a high-five due to the bra that you have on!)

Besides, it is quite amazing that you could even bend over to put on these nylons with the grip-of-death garter belt you have on. Fashion hint: lay on the bed (like when you were a teenager trying to zip-up those too-tight blue jeans) and lift one leg in the air at a time....throwing each nylon in the air like a butterfly net catching a Monarch...
(After a few tries you will lasoo that baby in a nylon stocking and be able to slip it down the air-hung leg).

But be careful of the second health risk: attaching the garter belt nylon straps onto each nylon.
I have been known to put a few eyes out with that little gymnastic act...and the circus has no contortionists better than what I have endured to attach the back garters..... I have the permanent leg welts to prove it.

But.......................................you do it for him.

Because, in the end.....you know that this is going to be HIS best Christmas present.

EVER.

Merry Christmas, honey.