It is with sadness that I inform you The Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show Holiday Special has been cancelled. I know, I am gutted too. This one hour of women strutting around in diamond-encrusted bras, angel wings, and stilettos really made the holidays brighter for me and gave me faith in woman-kind. Its cancellation has me wondering what to do with that hour and more because I’m sure we all enjoyed the hour before the show of the pink carpet and pre-show interviews with models and angels. So. Much. Time.
I consider opening the evening with belly button karaoke. I have to be in the makeup chair for 12 seconds, so it burns through some time, and I feel like an angel getting my makeup ready. My family can make it through one, maybe two minutes before I’m poo-pooed out of the living room. I post my creation to various social media accounts and watch for likes.
While I’m on the computer, I browse the internet for articles about “What they look like now,” and see if any of the models from the previous Victoria’s Secret shows got fat. I get distracted by a quiz on what kind of potato I am, but hell, I got time to kill, and I’m a Yukon Gold, after all.
Since no one is paying attention to me, I get my secret stash of Cheezies and eat them all by myself in the basement and not feel guilty about it. While I’m down there, I think about throwing in a load of laundry but laugh at the idea since I am operating on found time, and I’m not going to waste it with shit I have to get done.
The nerf guns call my name. I draw a picture of a girl in granny panties wearing wings and tape it to the wall. When no one is shooting at you, it is surprising how much fun it is to play with the nerf guns. I dodge and dive the furniture like I’m being shot at, and work up a bit of a sweat. I take off my socks and leave them balled up under the couch. I hit the target at least once, so it is a job well done. I don’t pick up the darts. I’ll close the door to the basement.
My family is still engrossed on their phones, so I pour a glass of wine and head upstairs. Next up for the evening, I try on all my cotton panties and throw out the ones with the massive holes. Each pair requires me to walk the runway (the length of our bed), but with the pivot and hair toss each time and an occasional stop for a scratch, that burns through 12 minutes.
When I go to put the best undies back, I notice some bags in the closet only marginally out of sight. I peel back the hanging sweaters with their shoulders pulled down to pointy nubs to hopefully find a blue box, but it is fucking socks. I can buy my own fucking socks. I take to my hiding spot and dig-in past the thoughtful gifts already wrapped and get to the chocolate meant for his stocking now perfect for my found hour. An entire sleeve of After Eight’s goes down slowly, but I savour them in silence.
While I’m partly naked, I caress the hair on my legs and marvel at how soft it is when it gets this long. Why would I ever shave?
I’m already in the bedroom, and it is 9 pm, what am I waiting for? An early bedtime it is, and since we haven’t watched the half-naked hotties strutting around for the last two hours, there is no need for my attempt to compete with the angels wearing feather dusters and a ratty bikini. I’d say that’s a good night.
