By some stroke of luck, I showed up at the gym yesterday looking like a total babe. I mean, still in gym appropriate clothes, but pretty alriiiight considering the gym is usually the place for anti-fashion (at least the YWCA in my historic St. Paul neighborhood is… not to mention that in my opinion, most ‘active wear’ is ugly as sin- more on that later). And I’m not saying this to boast of my hotness or encourage you fine readers to reassure me I’ve been hot all along– I know that. Ok, so maybe now I’m boasting. Anyway, I just noticed yesterday because gym foxiness is usually not the case.
My typical ‘keeping up appearances’ protocol at the gym (it is a public place, after all):
- Do your clothes smell like you’ve just come from a church fish fry?
- Does your greasy hair look worse than your 7th grade science teacher’s comb-over?
- Did you just eat a lot of raw cauliflower and hard-boiled eggs and chase it with a beer or two?
- Do you have stains from 2+ different foods/beverages on your shirt?
- Are you wearing pizza sauce spattered glasses that constantly slide down your face?
Then I ask myself: can you answer yes to three or more of these questions? If so, you should probably stay home and catch up on Project Runway and make popcorn. Buuut, EH F*CK IT! GET YOUR ASS TO THE GYM! Inevitably, I avoid looking at my oatmeal-stained, beer-bloated self in the mirror and still try to enjoy my workout, but I am left thinking “Is this all there is? Is that how it’s gonna be? Alas, I wish I were crocheting and listening to a Peter, Paul & Mary record right now.”
Yesterday, it hit me that my accidental gym hotness was actually making me workout harder while feeling more like my normal, fun self and not like frumpy, spinster, gym alter ego. I vowed to remember this foxy wardrobe/workout quality correlation for my evolving library (well, pamphlet) of fitness tips.
Let me emphasize, I am not advising you to find your gym fox style to impress other people. F*ck that! (lots of f*cks today, sorry, offended people who read Ellen’s and my blog… poor choice on your part) You need to do it for yourself! The gym is plastered with mirrors and if you’re not enchanted with the image reflected back at you–if she doesn’t looks like she’s f*cking shredding it–your treadmill stride is going to be a little lackluster, your bike pedaling more like that of the man with the balding Jew-fro reading a Scientific American next to you.
Maybe we’ll alter the ol’ cliche to: “Don’t dress for the level of fitness that you have, dress for the level you wish to attain.”