Target Underwear and a Vera Wang Gown Read Free

Philadelphia area that I hated above all, was the John Wanamaker’s in Wynnewood. While I disliked the store for its gray walls and lack of pertness in the children’s section, it was to become the birthplace of a fear that still affects me to this day
    My mother needed some new pantyhose on our way home from school one day, so she dragged my brother Michael and me into the store with her. By the time my mother got really into the collection of panty hose as she was wont to do, my brother and I eyed our savior from boredom ... the escalator.
    Here was the plan for the big race: Climb the escalators two floors up to the housewares section, do one lap around the Le Creuset pots, touch the blue pot, and head back down to the ground floor. The finish line would be the mannequin of the lady torso wearing the shaper bra. Touch that, and you would be the winner. Since Michael was three years older than me, I would have the advantage. Michael would be climing up the downstairs escalator (the wrong direction) and I would take the upstairs escalator. We would, of course, switch on the way down so that I would again have the advantage.
    The 1977 First Annual John Wanamaker escalator competition was on. Michael and I charged up both escalators, and even with my advantage, Michael took the early lead.
    “Come on!” Michael shouted to me, slowing down and trying to make the race more even. Michael has always loved competition.
    With all the strength I had in my eight-year-old body, before the escalator stair had time to compact under the rubber track, I surged forth. It was then that tragedy struck.
    Leaping forward to get off the escalator to the second floor, I was suddenly shot back. The hem of my right bell-bottom jeans leg had lodged itself inside the rubber track, locking me in place and getting even tighter as the escalator continued to roll.
    I let out a shrill cry of agony, calling for my brother, who at this point was more than halfway up the down escalator to the third floor.
    I could see Michael from the top of the up escalator streaming down to my aid (and, just in case it was a trick on my part, getting to the housewares section and touching the blue Le Creuset pot before coming to my rescue).
    By this point, a small crowd had gathered. A security guard tried to stop the escalator to no avail as I screamed on. Michael pulled at my pants to no benefit. My only hope was a superhero of the supreme kind and, luckily, she had finally finished picking out the pantyhose she needed.
    “OH FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!” I heard from the crowd, “WHAT HAVE YOU GOTTEN YOURSELVES INTO NOW?”
    I cried out in response to that familiar voice and called, “Mommy, Mommy!” As I saw her cross face appear through the crowd, she threw down her John Wanamaker bags, pushed my brother aside, and positioned her arms under my shoulders, yanking me so hard that the bell-bottom jeans slid halfway down to my knees. Then she shook me from side to side until the jeans fell off altogether, leaving me pantsless. Luckily, Robby Weinberg was nowhere in sight. I threw my arms around my mother as the crowd cheered. Just then, the security guard was able to stop the escalator, so she yanked the pants from the conveyor belt, fully intact. Then she looked at my brother and me and shouted, “A MOMENT’ S PEACE, THAT’S ALL I’M ASKING! ONE MOMENT!”
    For the next few weeks, every time we went to a department store, my mother would stop me before we walked in and say “Now, look, I need one thing in here. The whole process should take no more than ten minutes; we’ll be in and out. If we make it in less, you get ice cream; if you start to cause trouble, I’m going to feed you to the escalator!” I had no choice but to accept the offer.
    Without my usual modus operandi to make up for my boredom I began to help my mother pick out clothes and makeup and jewelry. Slowly, I started to enjoy it. She liked it when I told her I hated a particular eye shadow she