In these days when the financial markets have gone to hell and everybody on TV speaks in apocalyptic terms, I have decided to do the daring act of buying a pair of jeans.

It’s not much, I know, but I am doing my part for the economy. I am sacrificing my sense of well-being by going into a store, seduced by an ad I saw in a magazine that says there are jeans out there that actually make you look thinner. I am already mostly thin, I know that, but–let’s face it–there is a stomach pooch issue. There is ALWAYS a stomach pooch issue if you’re over the age of, say, thirteen. And when you have let your body give house room to three babies–well, let’s just say, there is enough poochiness to warrant attention over a pair of jeans that promises to do away with your belly.

I didn’t know that buying one pair of jeans was going to become nearly a full-time job.

The first pair I buy seems to fit great in the dressing room, but once I get them home, it turns out that they don’t allow a person to sit down. They come up all the way to my waist, a site that does not want to be constricted with fabric ever, ever again.

I take them back and try on 35 pairs of jeans–all the same size, mind you–some of which are baggy and make me look like I’ve put on my husband’s pants, and others which constrict all my blood flow in my legs and would have to have about 6 inches cut off the bottoms. I put on some that come down so low on my hips that they would slither off if I made any sudden moves. And other, "boot-cut" types were so wide at the bottom that I could have smuggled a couple of toddlers underneath.

When I come out of the dressing room, holding all the rejects in my arms, another woman is staring at the sign over the piles of jeans. The sign that reads "CUSTOM-FIT JEANS. PERFECT FOR EVERYBODY."

She laughs. "Ha! Have you ever found a perfect pair of jeans?" she says. "Ever, in your life?"

I say, "I have never even found a pair of jeans that I can stand to keep wearing after dinner."

She hands me a pair that she says seem as though they might fit me. I hand her one of the pairs from my stack that I think might fit her. We meet at the mirrors.

"These actually feel pretty good," she says. "I think I can settle for these."

I loved the pair she handed me. They come just below the belly button, and yet they hang on for dear life. Not too tight, not too loose. They feel kind of like leggings. They’re not the color of jeans I usually buy–they’re much darker–but I can live with that. The dark blue is actually rather…well, slimming, I told her.

We shook hands and headed for the cash registers.

"It’s been nice working with you," I said. "Ten years from now, when I’m done with these, I hope I run into you again."

"September 2018," she says. "I’ll be here."