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This Fashion Girl's Dirty Little SecretLies in Her Gym Bag (Are You Guilty of This Too?)

This Fashion Girl's Dirty Little SecretLies in Her Gym Bag (Are You Guilty of This Too?)

4.8 (71) · $ 16.00 · In stock

Confession: I'm a gym rat. One of my favorite things about being a freelance, work-from-home writer is the flexibility to hit the gym, take a yoga class, or go for a run in the park every.single.day. (Provided that I'm on deadline, of course—cough, cough—hiiiii, awesome editor Sophia!) But what I have a hard time with is the pressure to wear stylish, designer, and, more often than not, pricey fitness clothes to work out. Adriana Lima and Erin Heatherton show off their super-stylin' workout clothes. It was especially persistent when I lived on New York's Upper West Side, where the yoga studios, health clubs, and fancy lunch places are ruled by designer Lycra-pants-wearing cliques—you know what I mean, right? I'd always get the side eye in my ill-fitting boot-cut workout pants circa 1999 (hey, they held up well) and old, ratty T-shirts (most that I got for free). And let's not even talk about the looks I'd get when I'd run errands on the way home. I guess it's pretty ironic considering that my resumé reads "fashion writer" and I have a million-plus ways to justify the purchase of a $1,000 Prada handbag or Nicholas Kirkwood six-inch python platforms that I've
Confession: I'm a gym rat. One of my favorite things about being a freelance, work-from-home writer is the flexibility to hit the gym, take a yoga class, or go for a run in the park every.single.day. (Provided that I'm on deadline, of course—cough, cough—hiiiii, awesome editor Sophia!) But what I have a hard time with is the pressure to wear stylish, designer, and, more often than not, pricey fitness clothes to work out. Adriana Lima and Erin Heatherton show off their super-stylin' workout clothes. It was especially persistent when I lived on New York's Upper West Side, where the yoga studios, health clubs, and fancy lunch places are ruled by designer Lycra-pants-wearing cliques—you know what I mean, right? I'd always get the side eye in my ill-fitting boot-cut workout pants circa 1999 (hey, they held up well) and old, ratty T-shirts (most that I got for free). And let's not even talk about the looks I'd get when I'd run errands on the way home. I guess it's pretty ironic considering that my resumé reads fashion writer and I have a million-plus ways to justify the purchase of a $1,000 Prada handbag or Nicholas Kirkwood six-inch python platforms that I've