The Perfect Pair

I’ve yet to find the perfect pair of jeans. This insignificant yet profound piece of information tortures me. It keeps me up nights. It occupies every mirror and reflective surface in view. It impacts my bank account severely. It makes bystanders question my sanity.

I’m not a perfectionist. I don’t believe it’s a noble pursuit. Owning the perfect pair of jeans is as close as I’ll strive for perfectionism. The perfect pair does, in fact, exist. I have a penchant for movies, specifically dating as far back as the 1940’s. I’m hyper aware of wardrobe on screen. I’ve seen the perfect pair.

Take for example Cary Grant in Houseboat. He wears an ever so flattering jean with an almost indigo hue. If that’s not convincing enough take any Eric Rohmer film, where you’ll see an oversaturation of perfect jeans.

I see them an admire the cut, the rise and the wash. The perfect jean is worn. It’s calloused and shows receipts of past experiences. The perfect pair requires no belt, as it will cling to you like a caring mother nursing a newborn.

Perhaps the perfect pair exists in my closet. My problem could have an easy fix. Maybe it simply comes down to wearing one pair at a time, until the stitching falls apart. I’ve had a short career in the denim world. I’m no connoisseur and I have no interest in hearing about Japanese denim. Who has the time?

The closest pair of jeans I have to perfect reign from a little place called Walmart. The brand is Rustler, not Wrangler, Rustler. The feeder team to Wrangler. I’ve worn this jean as though it were an extension of my skin. The denim communicates that. I’ll continue my hunt to the very last seam. Something about this seems self-sabotaging. In the name of denim, it’s a worthwhile pursuit.