I blushed as I asked her the
question. Her wide-eyed, innocent expression made it worse. For her a question
asked many times before. But for me, a new experience.
“Where will I get a nightdress?”
Then, to cap my male embarrassment
with stupidity, I added with an air of jocularity, “Not for myself of course.
It’s for my wife.”
Mentally kicking myself, I took the
escalator to the first floor. Each clickety click of the ride I was haunted by
the salesgirl’s humourless look. “She must have thought I was some sort of nut”
I mumbled to myself. In a sort of reflex action I looked around to see if
anyone had heard my self-criticism. With a sigh of relief I saw that they hadn’t.
In that frame of mind I stood at
the top of those moving stairs. All around were garments for the gentler sex to
weaken the stronger sex. Women staff were everywhere. There wasn’t a male in
sight. I began to feel like a mouse in a cat’s home. My male ego cringed before
foundation garments, lace panties and other unmentionables. Glancing right,
left, and to the rear I could see no-one I knew. So, collecting the shattered
remnants of my confidence so carefully built up[ over the past few days, I
propelled myself through the lingerie department. I came to a standstill at my
destination amidst the nightdresses and pyjamas.
There I stood in my charcoal
blue suit, brownish hat and flushed cheeks. With the background of
multi-coloured nighties I felt even more self-conscious and conspicuous.
“O horrors,” I thought, “What if I
meet somebody I know?” Just then, one of the saleswomen approached me. She was
a tall, slim, dark haired woman in her early thirties. Her pleasant smile, plus
her charming, friendly and business-like manner put me more at ease. Mentally I
said “Thank goodness” for she did not have that slinky walk which I had
associated with this department.
“Can I help you? Are you a
salesman?”
“Well, no” I managed to smile. I
wished I was one but added, “I’d like to look at some nightdresses. I want to
buy a Christmas present for my wife.”
She asked me the amount I was
willing to pay. I told her an amount. To be honest, I felt that the estimate
was quite generous, especially as there didn’t seem to be anything to the
garments. When the saleslady told me that the prices went up to fifty or sixty
dollars (and dearer elsewhere) I nearly hiccupped. In one breath I was revealed
as a skinflint. Still, necks can be stretched but dollars can’t. So my estimate
stuck.
Then began a new phase in my
ordeal. I was walked up and down aisles where these dainty items hung. There
were long ones, short ones, lace ones and plain ones. The woman pulled them from
out of draws, from under the counter and from behind curtains. I was shown
specials, discontinued lines and the most up-to-date fashions. My mind reeled
under the impact. Picturing my wife in some of them sent me from suppressed
laughter to embarrassed delight.
Suddenly the saleslady was called
away for a few moments. There I was left holding three or four different
shapes, sizes and colours of night attire. Boy, was I feeling queer. If anyone
had appeared who I knew I think I would have dropped the lot and run. Silliest
thing of all was that I didn’t know my wife’s size. Wanting it to be a surprise
I hadn’t asked her, and I sire wouldn’t ask anyone else. But I remembered
hearing her say that she had lost weight. She boasted that now she could get
into some S.W. dresses. So, when asked I had knowingly said, “S.W. please.”
Then the colour had to be chosen.
From memory I began to recall the various colours of my wife’s nighties. For
this I was acclaimed as a rare male. “My husband wouldn’t have a clue what I
wore” the woman said. “Some husbands must be blind” I thought. “Still, that’s
their business.” The more I lingered over the nighties, the more I was lost in
the land of indecision. Short or long? Blue, red, green or what? Close the eyes
and pick? Hardly. O well, a decision has to be reached. Here goes.
“I’ll take … that shorties one
there. Yes, that’s right. The apricot coloured one with the white lace in front.”
With bold decision my mind found peace. My shoulders straightened. My
confidence came creeping back.
Swapping cash for the parcel I
said as a parting shot, “Sure hope my wife likes it!” With a twinkle in her
eyes the saleslady assured me that my wife would be overjoyed. I felt ten feet
tall as I walked away.
Going down the stairs, as the
escalator only went up, I began seeing
myself as one who had just conquered some untamed territory. I was the hero of
the lingerie ‘jungle.’ I could hardly wait for Christmas. At our place this is
always a time of delight. But as our children woke us up in the wee small hours
of the morning I became torn between delight and despair. What would she say?
Would she really like it? Would it fir? Did the colour suit her?
As she unwrapped the small parcel
my questions were joined by her “What is it?” Her eyes widened with surprise
and delight and perhaps a little unbelief as she took it out and unfolded it.
Even before I received a big hug and a soft “Thank you” I knew the ordeal had
been worth it.
Unfortunately, it was too small.
So it had to be changed. Did I ride the escalator once more? Did I brave the
stares of the women and mingle nonchalantly amongst the lingerie? Did I boldly
say, “A bigger size please”? Not on your life! My wife did that. I stood on
guard at the base of the stairs.
This was perhaps my earliest foray
into writing many, many years ago.
©Ray Hawkins Oct. 22 2016.
