Victoria’s Secret: nostalgic or passé ?

If you have a perfume that you deem ‘yours’ I envy you for your perpetual decision making. I change mine every three to four months, seeking ‘uncommon’ (like mostly every other) in a world of consumerism.

Regardless of convincing myself of my special commitment to the likes of Aqua Di Portofino and Gelsomini Di Capri, basing my judgment on the name that my English-speaking pals will have difficulties spelling and anything that remotely smells of summer, there was one scent, that made its way into my closet and literally deprived of any nasal response from my roommate.  

Pure Seduction. 

At the age of sixteen, for endless months I went through anything Victoria’s Secret put the eponymous label on: body sprays and lotions and perfumes and body sprays once again. Was it the name that promised the allure of femme fatale when one is discovering herself and making it up as she goes? Was it the deep cherry red, mysteriously swinging in the light weight plastic bottle? Was it the scent, that left my roommate with zero recognition of whether I smell like smoke, tic tacs or a child prostitute?

Or was it the fake notion of leaving a trail like an angel once you walked by? You wanted to be Heidi, because English is your second language too. You bought into Miranda, because her soft spoken word and tales of growing up on a farm in Australia made you oblivious to her perfection. Doutzen and Rosie were your Brigittes, and you could not possibly shrink from modern looking legends. Selita and Jasmine were a breath of fresh air to you, against an all barbie looking line up (except for your favourites of course). As if Victoria whispered herself: here, sit back, judge and defend your favourites. 

Last night Adriana Lima took her last bow as a Victoria’s Secret Angel and has folded her wings to the cries of couch judges that she has won over with her killer abs and hard work that spanned two decades. There she went, at age 37, no longer valuable. As much as the brand tried to channel array of womanhood by ticking the diversity box with Winnie Harlow, the show reeked of passé. With the backdrop of Rihanna’s Savage x Fenty show, Victoria’s Secret luring in young women with Bellas, Gigis and Kendalls seems like an expensive attempt that entertains cheap. Plus size models still out of sight.    

You grow, you learn. No longer the smell of Pure Seduction empowers, but stenches the air with a memory of bad choices and obnoxious cry for attention. While you have cultivated girl power and dived deep into feminism, Victoria’s Secret stayed in a time lapse a decade ago from now.