Stockings

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Freshman year in college. Christmastime. Back home for the holiday. Planning for Valentine's Day.

In a year B.I. (before Internet, the public Internet–ARPAnet was in existence, but who knew about it?), you had to go shopping in a store or via a catalogue. I chose the former.

Went to the primary (we had three) department store in town and marched right into Intimates. Not many (okay, ANY) guys there, so the middle-aged saleswoman came over to rescue me and give me directions out of there.

I'm kinda direct and rather hard to shame, so when she asked, "Can I help you?," I has no difficulty saying "Yes, actually, can you tell me if you have actual stockings, not pantyhose?"

I'm positive she was waiting for me to say, "Just kidding, where's the fishing gear?," but I just gave her my best earnest, innocent look.

To her professional credit, she walked me over to the (rather small) selection.

"Do you know what size you're looking for?"

"No," I replied.

"There's a chart on the back of the package. Do you know her shoe size?"

(I vividly recall that the shoe size was relevant. Thankfully, I did know it.)

"Yes," I answered," and she faded away to let me browse. As I did, every customer (all women, of course) were giving me a look like I had strolled into the women's restroom instead. I pressed on, figuring she was a small/petite and looking for a pair of black ones.

Jackpot!

With my treasure in hand, I found the saleswoman and dented her demeanor by asking if they had any garter belts. (I figured if you're selling the nylons, the rest of the equipment had to be there too.)

To my surprise, the answer was no! But she recovered and said they had "shapewear" (at the time a new term to me) that stockings could be worn with. Again, I followed her dutifully and saw a rather (this time large) selection of all-white things like in my mom's dresser.

Serious buzzkill.

But out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a rack with satiny merry widows (basques to some) in red.

Double jackpot. I pointed to them and asked, "Those, how are they sized?"

"By bra size. You wouldn't happen to know hers, would you?"

Geez, do some guys come unprepared into this unknown, somewhat hostile territory? "34B."

She rustled through the rack and pulled one out. "Like this?," she asked.

"Very nice." (It was--less trashy than Frederick's of Hollywood, but definitely something that was never, EVER going to be worn out of the house or even bedroom.) "I'll take it."

Over to the departmental cash register and the deal was sealed. "Do you need a gift box?" (This was an era when such things were regularly and free[$]ly offered.)

"Yes, please!" And she carefully packaged the goodies, careful to remove the perforated portion of the tags that bore the prices.

Finally, she handed me the fancy shopping bag with the rope-like handle

THIS IS THE PART OF THE MEMORY THAT IS SWEETEST

and said, "Your wife will love these."

I hadn't yet, but was to soon, turn 19. It was a different time, to be sure.
 
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