It's a pretty day, warm sunshine, nice breeze, and you're off of work for the day, your chores are done and you're looking forward to some nice quality do nothing time just for you. You fix an iced tea, garnished with a lemon slice, a sprig of fresh mint, cut a thick slice of that chocolate cake, resplendent with gooey icing, gather up the most recently received mail order catalogs and head for the deck.
With feet propped up and a lap gathering crumbs, you begin your search for the new summer wardrobe. Flipping pages past those atrocious polyester 'take me out back and shoot me if I put them on' pull up pants, and the garishly festooned tops that hide a myriad of sins while adding a mega-myriad of same, you suddenly spot 'IT', the perfect dress. You visualize yourself stopping traffic, ending marriages, perhaps beginning wars as you saunter sultrily down the street.
Your pen nearly gouges the paper as you list the particulars to speed that item from its plastic bag in their storage facility to your 'no more wire hangers a la Mommie Dearest' closet. Victoria HAS no secrets, soon neither will you.
The afternoon flies by as the pile of envelopes grows on the table by the now forgotten ice tea, long ago watered down with melting ice. The sun glares down and warms the plastic of your Platinum Visa, the numbers by now committed to memory. Exorbitant shipping and handling charges mean nothing to you. The power of mail order purchasing is yours and you revel in its glory.
Slipping on your sandals you dash to the friendly neighborhood post office, consider overnight Express Mail as you dreamily picture yourself in that baby blue 'he's gonna want to touch me constantly' blouse. Feeling the glare of the postal clerk between her glances at the time telling device on the wall rapidly approaching 'I ain't gettin paid off the clock so hurry up' o'clock, you hurriedly purchase stamps and send them on their way.
You wait...your wardrobe looks increasingly worn and outdated, why didn't you call the orders in? Oh yeah, that nosy neighbor has your cordless phone programmed in his scanner. He doesn't NEED to know you got that wonder bra in three colors.
Finally, the first orders come. You hastily rip open the packages, oblivious to the fact they make handy return packages too. It's 'THE DRESS'. You hold its softness next to you as you seek the bedroom and the full length mirror.
WELL! "I suppose if I stand arms and legs akimbo like the girl in the catalog that I'll look as good as her", you think as you stand with a shapeless wad of material draping your body. So, you unbutton a few buttons like she did, straddle the chair and check again.
Alright! Alright! So you need the C-cup cleavage, the tanned and vein less legs, and the flowing blonde hair framing a perfectly pear shaped face with pouty full lips pursed as if to say 'come hither oh I can't believe it's not butter man'.
Sighing you look to the next package only to discover you can read the order blank thru it's cheap and gauzy 'didn't show HER boobs in the picture' material. Well, at least that means you can also read the return form.
Size small?? For WHAT? You shake your head at the hind end that stares back at you from the mirror wondering exactly where your buttocks are at this moment. You bend over like the model did when they wore these jeans and somehow miss that all important well rounded visual you remember knowing would insure you a date for the beach campfire next week. Hell, right now you feel like you've just ordered the kindling.
As if to add insult to injury, you discover that even wonder bras have their limits. When there's nothing to push and shove and rearrange all you have is a handful of high priced nylon in the form of medieval torture devices. But, of course, in three different colors.
Slowly you try to match the ripped bags with the correct item, laboriously enter all the information on the return forms. You don't understand why they don't have 'because I don't look like 'damn I hate her' Cindy Crawford' as one of the 'reasons for return'. This isn't near as much fun as the day you sat on the deck and dared to dream yourself as Victoria Secret's newest find.
Reality bites! So did those form fitting stretch pants when you tried to zip them past your thighs.