Somewhere in the 90s: “Monkeys”/Μαϊμούδες
My eternal quest to end my misfit status in high school had as many obstacles as a low hurdles competition. Only I didn’t know I was running a marathon. Every day I looked at myself in the mirror disappointed with my frizzy hair and childish clothes. I knew what style I needed to wear to pass as a regular teenager but the astronomical prices- for a typical Greek household- of luxury brands and imported fashion items was hindering my plans. During the nineties the price of a pair of Levi’s jeans was equal to a liver in the organ market.
Meanwhile in the courtyard of my working class school everyone but me was flashing all the expensive brands. Assuming that these youngsters didn’t have ATM machine’s as their legal guardians, this was a real mystery to me. One or two were constantly bragging about their shoplifting escapades but I could not believe that for the remaining 318 of my schoolmates. Everyone around me had a few pairs of Levi’s jeans, Diesel sweaters, Lee Cooper jean jackets. Damn was I jealous!
My cousins had just two pairs of jeans, one to wash and one to wear- authentic Levi’s. When one of them visited us from Kalamata she gave a single condescending sniff peering at my Athenian classmates and scoffed: “Monkeys!” “Monkeys?” I answered perplexed. Sure I knew what they were. In fact a few years prior a little circus man had placed one on my shoulder and then gave a ridiculous price to my father for the polaroid snapshot. But I didn’t quite understand what she meant. “Cheapskates! Look at the logos! They are all wearing monkeys.” Since I was obviously still in the dark she proceeded to educate me. “Look at their jeans. This is not a Levi’s, it has a different cut! And it says Lewis instead of Levis,” she added somewhat frustrated. “And the sweaters have cheap stamps instead of sewn patches. They are all wearing imitations!” I looked around in sudden understanding; we were surrounded by a sea of Lewis, Lea Couper, Old Star, Abibas, Fiba… even Mikes!
That was the day I came to understand that “monkey” was short for counterfeit. The countless imitation brands are simply called monkeys in Greece. While my cousin continued looking appalled I saw a sliver of light shining through the stone wall that divided me with the other teenagers. Snooping around I learned that a few hundred meters away from the school premises was a small manufacturing firm that created “their” 501 Levi’s jeans for a fraction of the cost. And Diesel, and all the American brands that I needed in my wardrobe in order to blend in. Finally, not only could I look like everybody else, but I got to meet and greet all the fashion icons from school in the store.
I quickly realized that the famous “one size fits all” and “unisex” was a cleverly constructed nightmare. Its sole purpose was to make us girls feel dreadful about our bodies. No matter who you were back then. You were never too thin or too tall for those hideous, tight, stiff jeans. The 501 straight cut jeans were either too tight or way too loose in all the wrong places. I was 36 kilos and 152 centimeters tall yet I was starving myself to measure up to an impossible standard. A size or two smaller would be “just perfect.” My mother was also constantly dieting and she cemented in my mind that everyone should aim to be thinner. A twisted image of “perfection” laid between the glossy pages of the so-called women’s magazines. A glamorous world where model agencies stalked anorexia clinics, and the wide spectrum of female beauty was morbidly squeezed to size zero.
Once again, the solution was provided by the “kind monkeys”. The owner of the store, a witty eyed woman, figured out that straight cut jeans did not exactly flatter her clientele. In time they created their version of 501 jeans adding a few extra inches here and there to accommodate the mediterranean silhouette. My cousins, proud owners of the “genuine” jeans were once more quick to discover my knockoffs and denounce them as treachery. They tried to convince me of the superiority of their jeans. Somehow my little sister and I were not convinced. We proudly stuffed our closet with jeans, sweaters and shoes of all colors with the new improved monkey collection. After all, we didn’t need any authentic jeans. We had already inherited a unique perk of the glamorous life of a top model: eating disorders.
