One of the best things about fall is the phoenix-like rising of my fall clothes. There's nothing better than pulling on my favourite cords, my most comfortable hoodie, or my worn-to-perfection jeans.

As much as I loved last year's jeans, I decided this year to update a little and add a new pair of denim to the fall closet line-up. So off I went, in high spirits and with a handful of twenties shoved in my purse, to the mall. I had a good feeling about this — I was going to find the indisputably perfect pair. Unfortunately, things did not turn out quite like I had planned.

My first stop on the jeans bender was American Eagle. I figured it a wise choice; I usually had good luck with pants there, and had high hopes. Hopes that were soon torn apart like wrapping paper on Christmas morning. I poked around the New Arrivals, stared at the Wall o' Jeans, and rifled through the sale racks, but to no avail. Every pair was either badly faded, torn to pieces or dirty looking. Fine for some, I suppose, but I usually try to buy clothes that don't imply a lack of laundry soap or running water.

I was a little disappointed that I had to go into another store but by no means discouraged, so I headed to the Gap. Normally I have nothing against the Gap, and would be the first to recommend it for the smart-casual look, but this time the Gap let me down. Where is Sarah Jessica when you need her?

Now it was beginning to get upsetting. Not quite time for Starbucks and a magazine, but surely the end was near. The sterile mall atmosphere was starting to get to me — the glare of the florescent lights, the sickly sweet smell of Cinnabon slowly destroying my free will. How much longer could I take it before I knocked down an old lady standing between me and the door?

My head started to spin; I didn't know where to go next. I'd never had to look so hard for Perfect Jeans. What was happening?!?

Everywhere I looked there were trendy jeans covered with glitter or sparkles or rips or zippers or pockets with butterfly embellishments; thousands of pairs of jeans that were all too stupid looking for me to consider wearing. From across the store I would eye a pair that weren't covered in silly things, and walk over as quickly as I could manage without making a scene, tear them off the rack and give them the once-over. “Are these the ones?” I cry. “Is this the Perfect Pair?” Alas, there on the ass pocket, as big as the night sky, is a fake diamond flower stitched into the very fabric. Impossible to get off. I throw them down in disgust and head back into the fray.

By now the laughter of pre-teen girls is starting to make me crazy — I'm grinding my teeth and my fists are clenched so tight my knuckles are white. Just one more store, I tell myself. I must find them in the next store.

I stumble, shaky and frantic, into Campus Crew. Like a deer in headlights my eyes dart wildly from rack to rack, trying to take in all the colours and patterns. Finally, tucked away in the corner, are a pair of jeans that don't look torn, dirty or covered in My Little Pony decals. I approach the jeans slowly and cautiously find what I think is my size. A competitor approaches from the right, and I clutch the pants tightly, protecting Jeans like a lion protects a cub in the jungle. Hissing at the approaching consumer, I stalk off to the fitting rooms. Finally, this must be it.

I stand in front of the mirror for what seems like days, checking from every angle to make sure that they are indeed, Perfect Jeans. And I can hardly believe it, but there, looking back from the mirror, is the Perfect Pair of Jeans.

Elated, I cartwheel up to the counter and throw Jeans down to pay. A short Visa transaction later, I am the proud owner of the season's ideal denim.

That night, I drift off to sleep like a junkie who just got his fix.
Morning comes, and I can't wait to wear Jeans. I grab them from my closet and eagerly pull them on, only to find that these are not the jeans I bought the day before. They can't be, CAN'T BE, because they don't fit. They're too long, too big, and altogether the most unflattering pair of pants I've ever seen. Where whereWHEREWHERE are my jeans?

And now, as I sit here in Uncomfortable Jeans, I think I can explain my fashion mis-buy. In fact, I think I can explain a lot of the terrible fashion mistakes that people make.
I figure that the mall has some sort of power over consumers. Spend enough time in a mall and a person starts to suffer from dizziness, hallucinations, and blurred vision. Spend too long, and things that would have been inconsiderable at the start of the shopping trip suddenly look hot, resulting in terribly ugly clothes being purchased with the enthusiasm that one would think is only reserved for Pearl Jam tickets and a Learjet. This condition seems to clear up as soon as natural light and fresh air are reintroduced to the subject. But by then, the damage is done.

The most unfortunate part of this already tragic tale is that I have to once again travel into the bowels of mall hell to return the horrid jeans. And I can't even think about looking for the perfect pair again; I'm already starting to shake.

Have any secrets for safe jeans shopping? send them the Ruth at overcaffinated@hotmail.com