Yeah, I know. Workout fashion: it’s an oxymoron. The gym is not the place to worry about being fashionable. You’re going to be all sweaty. No one cares what you look like. And that’s true. I don’t care what anyone else looks like. I just care what I look like.
don't be fooled. there are no muscles.
I have a love/hate relationship with the gym, though it’s mostly on the hate side of the spectrum. P.E. was always my low grade, and I was that sad sack of a kid whose dad had to pay her off to score a goal in kiddie soccer.
Still, as I get older, I have to admit that working out is probably a good idea. And then my much less practical side swoops in and refuses to go to the gym if the sports bra color clashes with the workout shirt. The hair – and this is the only time I’ll say this – is negligible. Many a time I have thrown up my greasy, begging-to-be-washed hair in a bun, slapped on a headband and dragged my butt to the gym.
I am an avid anti-black-all-the-time person – unless you’re going to the gym. Black says, “I’m serious about working out while looking chic at the same time.” It’s the perfect disguise for us strenuous-activity-haters: wear black and you’ll blend right in with the triathletes. Until you actually start working out and are dying after five minutes, while they’re going strong in hour two. This is all about the surface, people.
And don’t get me started about makeup. The only reason I have makeup on in these (bad) pictures is because I just came from work. You should see the walking zombie face I have when I go before work. Thank baby jesus no one else is at the gym at 6:30 a.m.
Tank, Tek Gear from Kohl’s
Jacket, Express (bought when velour track suits were in. Remember those?)
Pants, C9 by Champion from Target
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