The most expensive underwear ever.

Please note: This is not a story about underwear. Yes, it involves underwear. But it’s not about underwear.


It’s Tuesday. A stressful day. A rainy day. Kind of a crap day all around. Somewhere between meetings, I get a little email letting me know Victoria’s Secret PINK is on sale on and I think yes, that is exactly what I need. A little (somewhat responsible?) retail therapy. I mean, underwear is kind of a necessity.

So after work, I hop in my car and head down to the North and Sheffield area. Certain that I’ll get a parking ticket if I park on a side street, I do the next logical thing. I park in the lot for the shopping center North and Sheffield and walked over to Victoria's Secret.

I’m not saying what I did wasn’t wrong. I practically skipped past the many posted signs that warned if I left this shopping center, even temporarily, I would be towed. But whatever. I had an underwear sale to hit.


So I walk the 115 feet from the parking lot (Point A) to Victoria’s Secret (Point B). I get in, get what I needed and get out in what could not have been longer than 17 minutes. I'm happy with my purchase and happier to be leaving before the impending storm. I leave the store (Point B) and head back to the parking lot (Point A).


Wait. Hold on. Stop. Where’s my car?

Do you know the feeling that fills your being when you realize your car isn’t where you left it? Panic. Absolute terror and sheer fucking panic. Your hands get clammy and your face gets hot and you start taking these short, stabby breaths. Your head feels like it's filling with sand. Your heart pounds in your ears. And, to quote Mean Girls, your stomach feels like it’s going to fall out your butt.

But there wasn’t any broken glass on the ground and, more importantly, I don’t drive a car worth stealing. Remember that episode of Seinfeld where Jerry's car develops this weird smell? Well, my car's got this weird smell that would prevent anyone from taking it. (Except my car's weird smell wasn't a mystery, it's the result of leaving a window cracked when it rained for a week followed by another week of 95-degree heat.) Anywho, once I got a grip, I manage to call the tow company listed on one of those aforementioned signs.

The very nice towing company man manages not to laugh too hard at my expense and lets me know the Nissan is safe and sound within the barbed wire confines of their impound lot just a few blocks away.

Thoughts that crossed my mind:
- The sky is about to open up and unleash a fury of rain.
- It’s going to take a miracle to hail a cab in near-thunderstorm conditions.
- North Avenue is so backed up, it’s going to take forever to get anywhere if I ever manage to catch a cab.
- If I start walking now, I can probably make it before the rain starts and faster than a cab anyway. I mean, North and Sheffield is only one block west and a few blocks north of the tow truck place at Division and Halsted.



Thoughts that failed to cross my mind:
- Know what else is at Division and Halsted? The projects.

But I start walking because I didn’t think of this. It’s windy as all get out, but at least the rain's holding off. Walking along North, there are a handful of other shoppers and pedestrians scrambling to get inside before the storm breaks. But once I turn south on Halsted, not so much.

It's just me. Walking.

Straight into what has to be 45 mph wind gusts. The sky is getting dark. Between the half-demolished Cabrini Green and the quickly darkening sky, I half expected to see the four horsemen of the apocalypse trotting down Halsted. So I pick up the pace.

I’ve never had my car towed before (at least not when it was actually in [arguably] perfect driving condition and I wasn’t standing next to it with a string of obscenities streaming from my mouth), so I’ve never had the pleasure of actually going to a towing company.


Turns out, they’re exactly how you imagine. Dingy. Poorly lit. Bars on all the windows and more padlocks than you've ever seen. (Oddly enough, the wood paneled walls inside were covered with every single iteration of those inspirational posters. And without a hint of irony.) I have a garbled and awkward conversation with the towing company man through what I'm assuming is bulletproof glass, sliding my driver’s license and my credit card under the window to him.

I’m standing on this dark corner, holding my wallet (hello! I'm an idiot!), certain the sky is going to let loose any sceond now. I anxiously wait for the nice tow truck man to finish the paperwork. He wants to chat about the genealogy of my name; I want to get home without getting soaked and, you know, alive. He finally slides me the receipt to sign and holy crap this is going to cost me $170. I was prepared to cough up about $50—maybe $75—to ransom my car from the tow truck company. But $170? Sucks, dude.

I scribble my signature. The man slides me my card and license and finally opens the gates. I sprint to my car as the first fat rain drops start to fall. I throw my bag on the passenger seat and tear out of that parking lot like a bat out of hell.

So that’s the story of how a little trip to the Victoria’s Secret PINK sale that was supposed to make up for a crappy day ended up costing me $297.44, two hours of my life and any chance of ending the day on a high note.