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.
