There are three certainties in life: death, taxes, and that you will never find the perfect pair of jeans.
It’s easier to find a soulmate.
Countless times I’ve stood, nervous as a gazelle on the savanna as a nearby pride of lions makes dinner plans, gathering the courage to look at my butt’s reflection in the Forever 21 dressing room mirror.
Fake nails scattered on the floor, collateral damage of my efforts to yank the pants over my hips.
But, alas, no store’s jeans are magical.
They cannot make me look forever 21. Or 31. (I’d even take 41 but the odds are still long.)
Nevertheless, I’m not a quitter.
“Those look great on you!” chirped a perky twenty-something during my last hunting trip. Ah. That potent lie that sits locked and loaded in the holster of every great salesperson.
I want to believe. Like Mulder desperately wanted aliens to be real on the X-Files. Jeans that fit? If that isn’t alien, I don’t know what is.
“They feel a bit tight,” I wheezed.
“That’s how they’re supposed to fit.”
Hope rose in the dressing room. Like my belly fat over the edge of the waistband.
But I was torn.
Like the knees in the cool jeans that this salesperson seemed convinced were meant for me.
I wanted them.
I wanted them to love me as much as I loved them.
But, most of all, I wanted them to fit and leave me enough room for my diaphragm to expand to keep me alive long enough to show them off.
The question: should I put my faith in a person who works on commission?
Let’s be honest.
She didn’t care if I could afford the three-hundred-dollar jeans.
She didn’t care if I looked good in them.
She works on commission. She’d say anything.
Things like, “No! They’re not made in a sweat shop. They’re recycled right here in this country, by unionized labourers, from the donated jeans of wealthy people with excellent taste who drive electric vehicles.”
“They’re eleven per cent off! This is truly your lucky day. The sale ends forty-five seconds after you walk out of this store. These are the very last pair in your size. They might not be here tomorrow…”
She saved the very best lie of all for last.
“They actually might be a bit big on you.” Clever girl.
The trap snapped shut. The lioness snacked on the gazelle.
My wallet whimpered.
“Don’t do this!” my maxed card pleaded. “I have limits!”
Unlike, clearly, my gullibility.
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