Thursday, September 27, 2012

Soma

There are those moments, when you think, was I thinking? Especially when you know that it's a supremely stupid move.

Yesterday, I needed a pair of black suede heels with an ankle strap.  Needed them now. Needed them for my trip to London in ten days.  Since I am headed to New Mexico this weekend and swamped with work, yesterday was the only chance to buy the shoes.  I had an hour to kill between dropping my 13 year old daughter to make calls for the Democratic Party and seeing my massage therapist, which was plenty of time to accomplish my mission.

The store at the Biltmore hadn't received their shipment of shoes.

Unspent cash and 45 minutes.

I wandered across the way to Soma, the lingerie sister-store of Chicos - an old lady store filled with ethnic prints and chunky jewelry.  Chico's sizes are 0,1,2,3, 4.  You know that lack of definition in size means "comfort".  (Now, one of my favorite designers, Ted Baker, also uses a similar sizing scheme, I'm a 2 - clearly the clothes run tiny).

Soma is a tame version of Victoria's Secret.  I swear I never saw a thong in there.  However, I was on a new mission to find the "Vanishing Tummy" pantie that I saw advertised on TV.  I found them laid out on the display table in black, six shades of beige, a weird little beige polka dot pattern, and the ubiquitous "animal print."  That is the racy one.  I bought five (2 free with a purchase of 3),which were neatly wrapped in tissue and placed in a bag.

Still unspent cash and 30 minutes.

I know that in 30 minutes I will see Thomas, the Messiah, an Edgar Cayce who sees exactly how to see where my body aches emanate from.  Then his elbow has its way with that spot and every spot.  It's incredibly painful, but had made a huge difference in my ability to run.

Unspent cash and 30 minutes means one straight up vodka martini before the therapeutic torture.  I wander into the Crush Bar, strategically close to my car, and sit at the bar.  It's sexy.  Three larger than life photos of partially naked women loom over the bar.  Impossibly long legs and fishnets.  All bar seats are empty and I pick one.  I suddenly think.  What was I thinking?  I have a Soma shopping bag.  I glace behind me at the tables to see patron placement.  I angle the bag so that the label isn't visible (I don't put it on the ground because I know I will forget it if I do.)

All goes well.  I get a vodka Martini, sip it.  Prepare.  "I know this hurts and I am dangerously close to your kidney, but it will be OK".  " I don't know if this rock in your back is muscular or a tumor, but let's see."

As I am clearing my tab, I hear a woman say, "Your red hair looks gorgeous with that green in your dress."

"Thank you."

She doesn't stop.  "I love Soma."

I'm dejected.  Everyone heard that.  Even with the sensuality of the curves in the word "Soma," everyone knows that there is no thong in that store and no thong in that bag.

And now, no thong on me.