The guy who is now the official boyfriend told me he’d like to take me shopping for lingerie last weekend. I declined, which was a probably a mistake, because the next thing you know, driving back home to Tennessee, he is sending me a picture of the fishing rod he has just bought for me and speaking enthusiastically about trout fishing. I have never in my life fished and I do not relish either slamming a fish’s head against a rock or releasing it after tearing up its mouth, which I figure is also no great pleasure for the fish.

There is nothing wrong with my lingerie, by the way. I just prefer shopping for it alone. I don’t mind spending a lot of money on it, either. This winter I passed the $100 bra mark, which I swore I would never do. It reminded me of what they say about killing a man. The first time you do it you’re nervous and you have to psych yourself up, but after that it’s easy.

Still, the boyfriend shopping invitation got me thinking that maybe I should get something special for the next time he visits — that stuff you see in Victoria’s Secret ads on the women with masses of hair and partly open mouths whose expressions suggest they exist in a parallel universe where all they do is get ready for sex.

“Hey, Victoria, want to go to a movie?”

“I can’t, I’m getting ready for sex. Whaddya think, should I pose in the door with my mouth partly open or crawl into the room on my hands and knees with my mouth partly open? I don’t want to seem too obvious.”