Flannery O’Connor was right. A good man is hard to find but arguably more difficult could be the ineffectual result of what seems like every woman’s interminable search for the perfect pair of jeans. If we were to compare the two, what would you deem more difficult, more important, more gratifying to find after beginning a final descent toward the finish line?
I’m inquiring because I believe I have located the man and frankly, it wasn’t that difficult. We fell into each other’s laps at the hand of an inappropriately marketed Halloween party for Jews and though the six year interim between meeting and marrying was chock full of consternation I am sure has shaved valuable years off my life, the actual meeting was, all things considered, pretty easy.
Some days, I think I found the perfect jeans, too. (For visual reference, one pair is black denim, high waist and ankle length because I cut them — by Acne. Another pair is hip hugging, light wash, ripped and by Paige. I think a third pair is white, flare leg and trouser-y but now I might be pushing it). The problem here is that simply by virtue of the previous clause being prefaced by “some days” and the inherent uncertainly tethered to a verb like “may,” it’s hard to declare the indelibility of that statement with conviction. So, which one is it?
Here’s where I stand. Jeans are not like soul mates, which are like cookies (as evidenced by the self-scribed Soul Seeking Mate), in that when you’re looking for them, you don’t want variety. You don’t want a pair that can weather your favorite cropped white twill blouse but render completely useless when considering a flannel plaid shirt. Conversely, you also don’t want a pair that will put a shining light on the latter if it means futility when considering the former. You want a cake. A single, definitive flavor that will never fail you. And why won’t it fail you? Because it is reliable. It is exactly what you ordered and as such, maintains the ability to unflinchingly stay on the positive side of the radar that informs your calibration of moods.
Men are not all that different. The chief distinction here is that you want them to evince the spirit of cookies, or an all-you-can-eat buffet without compromising the most important attribute of your cake — that it’s there, that it’s one, that it will allow you to be its singular owner forever and always should you so please.
But when considering the state of perfect, subjectivity is obviously a key factor. So what’s perfect for me might be miserable for you but I’m going to take a leap of unwarranted faith here and declare that until this point, finding the all-encompassing pair of perfect jeans has been as fruitless an endeavor as Michael Cera’s trying to grow a mustache. Of course, that is subject to change, the problem is that as one Twitter follower so astutely pointed one when the question was initially posited: there’s no Tinder for denim.
So, which one is it?