Like many women I know, I have a hard time finding jeans that fit.
I have long legs and a short body reminiscent of Kermit the Frog. So on me, most jeans, at one end, barely reach my ankles, and at the other, have a waistband that chafes my armpits.
Width is a problem, too. Jeans ample enough to fit over my hips tend to gap at the waist. Cinching the excess denim with a belt makes me look like I’m wearing a Hefty bag. Not a flattering look. What’s worse, my husband keeps trying to put me out by the curb.
I’ve always suspected that great-fitting jeans are out there somewhere, but where? Then I got it: Watching my husband prepare for bow season, I figured maybe I could apply his deer-hunting techniques to my hunt for the perfect pair of jeans.
Following his lead, I started planning for my hunting trip several months ago. First I had to choose a spot. I’ve heard talk of some great jeans at the mall, so I took a few scouting runs over there in August and September. According to proper hunting procedure, I bought tons of related accessories—belt, v-neck sweater and earrings—but I didn’t tell my husband. That’s how it works.
After each scouting expedition, I’d come home and draw a map of the mall on a paper napkin and describe the space to my husband.
“There’s a restroom here and a jewelry kiosk here. If the wind is coming out of the south, then I’ll come in at the north end, by the ATM, and shop at this store,” I’d say, drawing an X on the napkin. I’d occasionally tap him on the arm when his attention appeared to be waning.
Once, I woke him up before dawn to say, “What do you think I should wear on my feet? My ankle boots go better with jeans, but my clogs are more comfortable for extended walking.”
He looked at me groggily. “What do I care what you wear for shopping? Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep?” (Hunters’ spouses are notoriously irritable.)
As the hunt grew closer, I took to pacing around the house, imagining the moment when I would make the actual purchase. I practiced whipping my debit card out of my wallet and swiping it in one smooth motion.
And I rehearsed my strategy. The trick, as any successful hunter will tell you, is to let the inferior specimens go by. I would ignore the low-rise jeans, which look ghastly on everyone, especially those of us over 30; no one wants to see my lower-back flesh bulging over the waistband. Slim cuts were also out, as I like to be able to sit for long periods without losing consciousness. No, I would target only those jeans with “relaxed” and “stretch” on the label.
On the day of the hunt, I arrived at the mall before dawn. My breath caught at the sight of the sun peeking up over the colossal concrete structure.
As soon as the doors opened, I slipped inside, creeping silently so as not to startle the jeans. I rubbed myself with a dryer sheet to eliminate the possible crackle of static and to make myself smell like a pile of clean laundry. New jeans, I have read, are easily deceived this way.
Entering the store, I remained motionless for several hours, waiting for my moment. I closed my eyes and absorbed the sensations of the mall: the feel of recirculated air rushing into my lungs, the sound of a child wailing in the distance, the smell of fries from the food court.
Finally, a shoplifter set off the door alarm, creating a distraction that allowed me to pounce on an unsuspecting rack of jeans. I carried a stack off to the changing room, envisioning myself triumphantly driving home with a pair of those indigo beauties strapped to the hood of my car.
Alas, it was not to be. Nothing fit. The perfect pair of jeans had eluded me once again.
But this mighty hunter is not discouraged. I felt a spiritual bond with the denim that day, and I experienced oneness with the climate-controlled environment of the mall. It’s a mood I hope to capture again in a few months, with the onset of swimsuit-shopping season.
Somewhere out there is a tankini with my name on it.
