Workout Wardrobe

I look ridiculous when I work out. I pound along, huffing and puffing on the treadmill, sweating so hard my entire shirt has gotten two shades darker. Even my eyelids sweat. My face turns from beat red to strange purple to a ghastly white. Honestly, I look like the chubby kid in gym class who you’re pretty sure isn’t gonna make that final lap without being removed on a stretcher.

Except that I do this at least three times a week.

In my civilian life, I probably come across as someone who’s a gym regular, who works out with a smile and maybe chats with a girlfriend while trotting through the park.

This couldn’t be farther from the truth. I exercise for both my silhouette and my sanity, but for some reason even after years of moderate commitment I have never acquired the effortless energy of a true gym rat.

I don’t help my case by wearing only gigantic t-shirts, humungous headphones, and (if I’m running outside) these extremely disgusting sunglasses which I only wear because I’m pretty sure they’re worth less than a dollar, so I won’t care if they are flung from my face and get run over by a truck.

And yet as I’m getting more serious about exercising (and, let’s be honest: man-finding) I’m beginning to feel like maybe I should take my outward appearance in the presence of the tight and toned a little more seriously.

Initially, my offensive aesthetic choices were a refusal to admit that I was taking myself seriously. To buy workout wear would be an admission that I was in fact ‘working out’, which, if one hasn’t in a while, is even less pretty than the picture I currently present. No one wants to be the kid in shiny new sneakers crying cause they’re getting blisters.

Yet by now enough time has gone by that even my desperate struggle to complete a 10-minute mile (ok fine—I’m up to three) has enough credibility that perhaps I could lose the look of shame in favor of something a bit more civilized.

I’m never going to be one of those girls strutting around in leggings and a sports bra (bitches). Nor will I exercise with my hair down, and unless I get that armpit botox I’m always going to be sweaty. But there has to be an attractive compromise to looking, well, attractive at the gym.

Maybe a fitted top with leggings. Some cute running shorts with a tighter t-shirt. I’ve noticed some girls wearing basic men’s v-necks with colored sports bras and they look great. (If I’m creeping on them this hard, what must the men be thinking?)

Although, by breaking my ugly-only dress code I have to realize that I’ll also be breaking my self-imposed code of silence at the gym. If I’m trying to pick up the men, I’m going to have to talk to them.

At which point they’re going to realize how desperately out of breath I am.

Sigh. You can’t win ‘em all.

Furry Problems

I am in the throes of a moral dilemma and it’s a case of life and death, literally.

The problem is fur.

I love it. I love the look of it. I love the feel of it. I love wearing it. I love sleeping underneath it. I love putting it on naked.

I may be turning into a cave person.

At least the cave people had justifications: the animals that died to clothe them were killed out of necessity, not narcissism.

In a modern world, this is clearly not the case. There are synthetics which offer equal warmth (they claim), indistinguishable aesthetic (they pretend), and at a lower price point. But these claims are flat out lies.

There’s nothing as warm as my rabbit mittens or fox fur hood. There are no slippers as cozy as my shearling moccasins. And as for the look, let’s not insult each other’s intelligence. I can spot faux fur as easily as a Cooch handbag.

Yet even within my own protestations I can indicate the desperate tones of justification. The fact is, I feel bad.

I’m an animal lover. A pet owner. I even experiment with vegetarianism. So how is it that the number of pelts in my possession is consistently increasing?

I will blame the phenomenon predominantly on my obsession with authenticity. I don’t want something that looks like something else. I want the real thing. When you lose something’s authenticity, you betray the essence of ownership. We can all go out and buy a fake Picasso just as easily as you can imitate a designer label.

So the question becomes: what is it that you’re willing to pay for, and why do you buy what you buy. People of means buy fancy things because they look better, feel better, and are made better than less expensive options. Your Payless pumps won’t last for five years of daily wear, but your Pucci ones might.

In contrast, if you’re pretending to own something you can’t afford, there are gonna be other indications that you’re a faker. People with Louis Vuitton luggage don’t drive Saturns. They just don’t.

Of course it’s different with fur because it’s not only a question of authenticity, but for many people a question of morality, and of humanity. No, there is no aesthetic or tangible synthetic equivalent to real fur. But it costs a life, and possibly a good deal of suffering. And no, I don’t think that my curling up with my coat is a fair justification for that.

And though I can tell myself that while wrapped in fur I’m being ‘earthy’, ‘organic’, and ‘fundamental’, I fear I may just be being a bitch.

I’m not necessarily going to win this battle within myself, nor am I going to stop wearing the fur that I have, though I may enact a personal embargo on further purchases.

At least I don’t own a bear-skin rug. Yet.