I never knew how lacking my stiff, scratchy Old Navy jeans were until I clad my loins in a pair of Luckys. So soft, so flattering, so (urp) expensive. But once I put them on, I was sold. This is how they get you. Instead of walking in, taking one look at the walls and walls of jeans, and walking right out again, a "Denim Specialist" (I'm not making this up) greeted me at the door. After asking about my denim needs, he pulled three pairs off the rack. One of which felt great. This was a stark contrast to my usual routine of yanking down 78 pairs of jeans - none of which fit - and collapsing into a sobbing heap in the dressing room before trying to wrangle all the damn jeans back onto the shelves because there is nary an employee in sight and I feel guilty about leaving a six foot high pile of pants on the floor.

I always said that I would pay $100 to find pants that fit me. Yesterday I had to put my money where my mouth is. And it was so worth it. Meet my new Lucky jeans:


Expensive jeans deserve a name of their own. I think this pair ("this pair" she says, gleefully assuming she will ever be able to afford another) will be named Betty. Betty requires special handling. My Denim Specialist informed me that he dry cleans his jeans. This seems to me to entirely miss the point of jeans so I won't go that far. But Betty will be gingerly placed in the dryer for precisely 34 minutes - the recommended drying time - so Betty remains soft and comfy. Betty will be worn twice a week, every week, until she disintegrates into the earth.

And I'm hauled off to the padded room for naming my jeans.