While walking on the treadmill this morning reading my current issue of Shape magazine, I became engrossed by the advertising section in its last few pages. No, the ads in the back of this type of magazine are not for 1-800 psychics or for bizarrely shaped "love pillows" , they are all for athletic wear. Tank tops, yoga pants, workout "skorts", from big names like Nike and smaller fitness companies, all in the business of making you look good while you work out.
I don't get it.
I can fully appreciate a coordinated ensemble on the women who star in the fitness videos I use. Gin Miller of Step Reebok with her gigantic man-like quads looks at home in a black, tank-top unitard. The gals from the Shape series look adorable in their bright pink hot pants and yellow sports bras. But for me? A Hanes old-man undershirt, a pair of men's basketball shorts and a bandana tied Aunt Jemima style to hold back my bangs. Hubby does not understand why I dress like a reject from White Men Can't Jump and my best friend, B, simply says, "Oh, honey." when I come with her to her gym. In my defense, I am now working out at home and I don't have to care what I look like. Also, the version of this outfit I do sport when getting fit elsewhere is a little better (an old, more fitted, Yankee T and some women's shorts). And, I even tried a watered-down version of the fashion forward workout gear I see when I purchased two entire workout ensembles before Hubby and I went on our anniversary trip since he said he'd pretend not to know me if I wore my usual garb to the hotel fitness center. Guess what? I hated them and have not worn them since.
Now this aversion to stylish fitted workout gear is not because I am ashamed of my body. I am in decent shape after three kids. I have two very specific reasons for wearing the clothes I do. One, I sweat like a pig. Really, it's gross. My most dedicated readers will remember the title of this post as Hubby's favorite (unfunny) joke when he comes into the basement as I'm exercising. By the time I am done (with just cardio!) I have to change my sweat-soaked shirt becasue it is weighing me down. So why the hell would I buy these flimsy, thin, little tops knowing not only will I soak completely through them in minutes and look like a fool, but I would have to buy twice as many as a normal person and thus spend twice as much? Don't even get my started on those tight pants and sw-ass (An abbrevation for sweat-ass. Thanks, B!).
Two, when I am working out I am not, and have never, been interested in attracing male attention. I am there to improve the body only Hubby gets to see in its natural state so eyes off the goodies Creepazoid. Seriously, there are some weirdos who hang around gyms to get their fill of exposed undies and ass cracks and I do not intend to be part of the daily quota. I like to do my sit-ups knowing Mr. I-Wear-Workboots-to-the-Gym isn't getting a peek at my girly bits. True, this is not so much of an issue now that I am working out in the privacy of the toy room, but I'd still rather do my step aerobics without having to pull fistfulls of Lycra out of my butt crack.
So I will continue to swathe myself in yards of fabric to put in a few miles on the treadmill or bounce along to Kathy Smith. Maybe I have the wrong attitude since I veiw working out as work - something to be endured because it must be rather than because I love it. But wearing the kinds of duds I saw today is akin, in my mind at least, to wearing high heels to the beach. Fashionable at the expense of function.
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