Carrie Bradshaw, fictitious columnist on the iconic television series “Sex and the City,” wore cute, sexy, feminine ensembles and sipped martinis as she wrote titillating columns in her trendy New York City apartment overlooking the glamorous city life. A looming deadline was never enough to prevent her from accepting a last-minute bar-hopping invite from her gal pals or an impromptu roll in the proverbial hay with Mr. Big. Life as a columnist is indeed very sexy when you’re a fictional character.

Meanwhile, in real life, you can generally find me in my home office in Spanish Springs overlooking suburbia, writing in sweats, comfy slippers and without a martini in sight (for which I’m sure my clients are grateful). Due to the nature of my work, my business networking “gal pals” are more likely to see me all dolled up than my own husband. Life as a columnist is admittedly un-sexy when you’re a real person.

So, when it came time to start dropping unsubtle hints about Christmas presents last month, I decided to bring sexy back and asked my husband for a Victoria’s Secret gift card. I hadn’t shopped in the store for years (with Old Navy closer and more comfy) but had fond memories of perfumed, lacy, silken elegance. With images of tasteful yet sexy lingerie and loungewear dancing in my head, I made the holiday shopping trek to the mall to find out what types of sensual secrets Victoria had in store for me!

Victoria’s new secret is apparently that her target demographic is reality show sluts-in-training. Standing among tables of cheap, neon underwear with the word “Pink” slapped obnoxiously across the butt, I couldn’t help but wonder: When did Jackie O get stabbed in the eye with a mascara wand by Snooki? What happened to the art of being a lady?

After only a few minutes of being pushed and shoved about in a very unladylike manner by packs of hyenas digging through piles of delicates the way my dog digs in the backyard, I fled for the exit. Victoria’s online shopping secret would surely remain a reflection of her classy, old school values, right?

One week later, I received a box full of my online purchases. I was most excited about a pair of sexy boots that I intended to wear on the big New Year’s Eve date with my husband. He watched curiously (trying to figure out how I could possibly prefer camis to camo) as I slid the boots on, unrolling the fabric up my legs, desperately working to bring the sexy back. And then I stood, wobbling on the ridiculously uncomfortable spiked heels and looking down at my husband from my new vantage point up near the smoke detector. I looked in the mirror and realized I looked like an applicant for a job in Fourth Street’s predominant night trade.

Looking in the mirror, I was reminded of a “Sex and the City” episode entitled, “Are we sluts?” Although the episode addressed dating habits, not DayGlo underpants with words plastered across the butt, the question is a valid one.

There has to be a happy middle between wallowing away in sweats and auditioning for a job as a woman of the night. There has to be a place in our busy, virtual lives where ladies who lunch have become ladies who Tweet, for a little old-fashioned, sexy femininity. There has to be a yang to the reality show yin depicting young women as rude, violent, drunken hyenas who would rather scratch and claw their way to some sort of pseudo social recognition than occupy a grammar book, an etiquette guide and a set of career goals. There has to be a way for us ladies to feel as pretty as a princess in our own lives, without waiting for a royal wedding on television every decade or so to emulate.

Once Victoria revealed her skanky DayGlo secret, the boots were promptly returned to her mysterious pink lair, undoubtedly bustling with activity during their big semi-annual sale this time of year. Even all the way out here in suburbia, I can imagine the orchestrated chaos as sexy factory workers stuff extra large pairs of thong underwear into UPS boxes bound for other American suburbs where frumpy housewives dare to dream the life of Snooki.

Meanwhile, I’ve decided that once my credit card is credited, I’m going to purchase some petticoats and a hoop skirt and then sit on my front porch fanning myself as I demurely sip iced tea and flutter my fake eyelashes. This way, in December when the Mayans return to Earth in their pyramid-shaped spaceships to scoop us all up, at least they won’t think we’ve all become a bunch of skanky, cat-fighting sluts.

Christine Whitmarsh is the owner of local writing firm Christine, Ink. She can be reached at christine@christine-ink.com.