Maeve Higgins’s ideal . . . pair of jeans
I was in my room the other day, trying on all the pretty dresses and smelling all the nice pillows and reading all the romantic letters. Everything felt so unfamiliar and new that I thought to myself excitedly, ‘I am reborn’. Then I realised it wasn’t my room. After one last deep breath, I tiptoed out, careful not to wake the sleeping couple I’d spotted in the bed. Confused and with hours to go before dawn, I decided to imagine the ideal pair of jeans.
I wear jeans. I do. You people have this idea of me that I live in an eyrie and wear silk culottes and have lovers of every race, but I must protest and urge you to believe me when I say, I’m just like you! I’m almost one of you – denim-clad and plain, head down, just trying to get through this.
I wear a plain jean. My dentist will tell you –Lord knows he’s had to free my tongue piercing from my crystal tooth inserts enough times – I’m not averse to embellishment. Sure, adding a funky eel skin belt or sewing a diamante cake or gun shape onto your jeans is fun. Really though, you’re just borrowing drama from one medium and forcing it onto another – like adding violins to an already moving scene in a film. Nobody (I’m referring to myself) likes to be manipulated, so please, slither that belt off and unpick those Swarovskis.
As Leo Varadkar recently demonstrated, by wearing a T-shirt saying ‘The Man (with an arrow pointing up to his face) The Legend’ (with an arrow pointing . . . down) sometimes it’s a really great move to let your clothes do the talking.
There are plenty of jeans available with words scrawled across the back pockets – containing secret messages about the wearer’s personality, often words like “sweet” or “cheeky”. The recent swing toward more lofty ideals is to be welcomed, one elderly man won my respect recently simply by having the word “judicious” emblazoned on his butt.
I’m just off the phone from my American cousin LaShaunte. She lives in Florida, so I call her regularly to ask her what’s going to happen in the future here in Ireland. She told me that everything will soon be available in pumpkin flavour (she pronounces it “flavor”) only, and she also divulged some pretty huge gossip. Apparently, Mom Jeans cheated on Dad Jeans . . . with Boyfriend Jeans. I know! The resulting Baby Jeans are relaxed fit and high-waisted, without a trace of the light blue Dad gene.
And these, it turns out, are the ideal jeans. Babies, stop rolling around the ground wondering whose hands are attached to your arms. Focus, please. Sit up straight, read this column and hear me now – you cram those chubby legs of yours into that soft, elasticated denim and enjoy this special time, when your dimensions across are exactly the same as lengthways and everyone loves you for it, because the opportunity won’t come back around until you’re 90.