Jeans whore, connoisseur

I was once a jeans whore, a connoisseur.

Last night, my favorite pair of jeans EVER, the Rock and Republic "Scorpion," bit the dust. I found a huge hole in the crotch when I plucked them from the wash. My grief was boundless. Shite. I needed another pair of medium-to-dark distressed jeans, and quickly. Shopping was in order.

As I gathered 20 pairs of jeans in my arms this evening at Bloomingdale's, I thought back to that fateful day some seven years ago in Nordstrom on the Magnificent Mile when I realized that my jeans were absolutely massive--I was wearing one or two sizes too large. It took me until I was 27 to figure that out. Such a shame that my best years of a youthful ass were behind me. But, better late than never, one supposes.

I had thought I was improving by moving up from Levi's to Lucky, but then I saw and felt the curve-hugging rightness of premium denim, and suddenly, I was more than willing to fork out $150 for an item that used to cost me $45. In any case, I resolved to find the perfect pair of jeans. But, I was alone. How would I ever know what fit? I whipped around the store, trying on every brand and purchased 12 pairs of jeans in total.

I took them to my sister's place on Belmont and started modeling. With her approval, I settled upon my first pair of an impending obsession. They were black, low rise and bootcut, made by 7 for All Mankind. They were a triumph of perfectly emphasized ass. (And I do thank the Lord that I have an ass to fill such denim. I would be inconsolable otherwise.)

From that day forward, I was consumed with the notion that I could find the perfect fit that obliterated camel toe and mitigated my hips. There was always that pesky butt-crack problem when bending over or sitting, but what a small price to pay for priceless curves.

I used to go shopping for jeans so frequently, even just for fun without purchasing, that I could tell you the cut and fit of each major brand, and I often took my friends shopping, analyzing their bodies and fitting them with the perfect pair of jeans.

Lost in the reverie of those glory days as I sauntered through Bloomingdale's, I plucked denim off the racks, seeing brands I no longer recognized, and something shocking happened. Something that I've been burying deep in my soul for probably the past year or so, ready to erupt: I just didn't care anymore. Sure, I want my ass to look great. Sure, I want my jeans to fit well. But, the obsession has died. More than anything, I just wanted a pair that made me happy and got a thumbs-up from me in the butt department.

I tried on pair after pair. Too big in the waistband! (And what is WITH the jeans right now--20% of the jeans i tried on were like that.) Too tight in the legs! Too stretchy! And then: my holy grail. The brand I haven't worn for several years now, yet the brand from which I started: a bootcut low rise pair made by 7 for All Mankind. They were the second to last ones I tried on, and they were by far the best fit. I took them to the counter and made my purchase.

My days of denim highs are over. I was pleased to find serviceable jeans, but not ecstatic. These were not as stylish as my Scorpions, but they were the right color and would fill the gap until I stumbled upon another superior pair. I am not sure when I'll find them, but unlike before, I'm in no hurry to rush out to look. They'll come to me when they come, and until then, these Sevens will get me through my daily commute.