My Not-So-Secret Secret Obsession Returns
On my never-ending love affair with the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show.
On Tuesday, October 15th, the residue of my jet lag from Europe had me awaken to the frail beginnings of a new day, but this wasn’t just any day—this day marked the return of the infamous Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, and through the haze of un-caffeinated thoughts, I knew my mind would be consumed with the pomp and circumstance regardless of my best expresso-ed efforts.
Growing up, the hardest choice I had to make was deciding between being a mermaid or a fairy, but when I found Victoria’s Secret, I had a new aspiration: to be an Angel.
Before there was October 15th, 2024; there was November 8th, 2018, November 20th, 2017, November 30th, 2016, November 10th, 2015, and all the way back to August 1995–the year Stephanie Seymour became the first would-be Angel to walk down the runway in her lingerie. With that, the annual Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show began. I was not alive then, nor would the world of riveting-red push-up bras, perfumes named ‘Heavenly,’ and the bedazzled briefs that comprised Victoria’s Secret break across my consciousness until about 2012.
It started with a trip to the local mall, after begging my mom to let me buy ‘big girl’ underwear (i.e. a thong) instead of the amusing, but childish strawberry and shooting star-printed Fruit of the Loom cotton 5-pack from Walmart. Having been dubbed the ‘girly-girl’ and praised for my commitment to that character, I continued to seek out and affirm all of its tropes. Girly-girls like sparkly things and the color pink, girly-girls smell fruity, like tropical punch, or spiced with a hint of vanilla, girly-girls have ribbons to tie in their waves of long hair, preferably in the shape of bows, and reams of silk to drape just so, girly-girls are to be a body for themselves, but just so long as it is agreeable for everyone else.
It was the quintessential, tale as old as time, equation that set me up to fall head over heels for Victoria’s Secret and the allure it promised. Greeted by the icy-blue, larger than life smolder of Candice Swanepoel outside of the shop, I could tell my mom did not think I was old enough to buy into the world of sex, hot-pink and fluffed wings. She left me to myself as I maneuvered through the various rooms, each complete with a new exotic-looking woman encased on a cardboard poster. The words ‘Bombshell!’ or ‘3 for $27 panties’ were omnipresent. The floors were black, but flecked with sparkles that reflected the overhead lights like stars in the night sky. I fingered the lace and silk, cotton and gemstones between my thumb and forefinger. I delighted in the array of lilacs, citrines, leopard print and cherry-dotted patterns to choose from to dress my interior. The whole experience was an other-worldly experience. Before long, my mom materialized by my side and urged me to just make a decision. We needed to get home for dinner. We needed to return to the real world. I quickly made my final selections, waltzed through check-out and was bestowed the signature pink-striped shopping bag, with the brand’s name in cursive gold.
This wasn’t the quiet-luxury we know of and seek out today—this was: I Want You To Know That I Know and I Am Apart Of It and (most importantly) I Belong.