Rupert unwittingly allowed himself to be rooked into a family shopping outing that included a stop for his wife to pick up some underwear. At, it turned out, Victoria’s Secret. He learned some things, including:

Men: Never take your daughter to Victoria’s Secret.

She might ask what is the difference between briefs, bikinis, low-rider bikinis and “boy-cut” panties (which, apparently, Victoria’s Secret calls “hot pants”). To illustrate her quandry, she might hold up one of each garment so labeled. There is no difference immediately apparent to a Mere Mortal, which is to say, to a man. And because my mind works the way it does, I automatically use every ounce of topological imagination I have to picture my daughter wearing them in sufficient detail to be able to describe how they hug her body differently.

My gorgeous sixteen-year-old daughter. In Victoria’s Secret underwear. Yikes!

I am unable to avoid this mental picture once the question is asked, even if it wasn’t asked of me (which it was not). Even if my daughter were not, well, a Babe (which she is).

At which point there is really no choice. I must either leave the store or gouge my eyes out. Possibly both. Oh, look, a B Dalton’s.