Where do you draw the line between workout wear and street clothes? More and more women are erasing it altogether.
When I moved to New York City from Texas at 22, amateur hour was over. As a newly grown-up person, I vowed I would wear dresses and skirts, wool trousers occasionally, and heels always. In those early days, I worked long hours at a music magazine, and even if the city streets were laid waste by a nor'easter, I had a pair of stilettos in my purse just in case. Who knew when a tony cocktail party might erupt in a snowdrift? I carried that fluttery anxiety everywhere—preemptively terrified that I'd be underdressed and therefore unprepared for the impromptu meetings that would springboard me to the next level of my career. I never let down my guard. I always wore makeup, my nails were reliably polished, my colleagues thought I was five foot eleven, and my closest friends were routinely deflated when we met for casual weekend breakfasts. "Warning: I look gross," they'd text. "Whatever!" I'd text back, carefully negotiating the uneven pavement in five-inch platforms and a wrap dress. Exacting fashion began to hold a talismanic quality. It was Dumbo's feather—more superstition than substance. And in many ways, my clothes conveyed the opposite of what I'd hoped to project, since too many sartorial bells and whistles often signal a lack of confidence.
The year was 2002, a time of boot cuts, A-lines, body-con, and pointy toes. "God, I remember the 2000s," says my friend Minya Oh, a New York City radio personality. "One night I was wearing sky-high Manolo Blahnik mules to a record release. I have a size 5.5 foot, so a heel is like being en pointe. My toes were clenching on to this shoe like a pterodactyl, and in the end, it was so painful that I walked for blocks barefoot. In Manhattan." The experience hastened Oh's conversion to luxe saddle shoes and Céline's Vans-style slip-ons and a corresponding gradual evolution in her clothing to limited-edition leggings, designer sweats, and status hoodies. "My thing now is that I always look like I'm coming from the coolest gym in the world," she says. "I'm good with living that lie."
Preach. My name is Mary H. K. Choi, and I, too, live in workout clothes. Had you told me this in my 20s, I would've sobbed like I was attending my own funeral. Or I simply wouldn't have believed you. But somehow, upon summoning enough courage last year to quit a full-time job to embark on a career as a freelance writer, my priorities shifted. Basically, I got superdepressed and somewhat fat. Since day drinking with vaguely employed pals while maintaining productivity was not a viable option (believe me, I tried), I decided to combat the sedentary aspects of my new life by getting fit. I began funneling a ludicrous sum of money toward a rotation of Spin, barre, and boot-camp classes in the quiet afternoons—the workout dead zone that is the natural habitat of both freelancers and stay-at-home moms. In a short amount of time, I felt considerably better. Poorer, but better.
It was the discovery that my coffee-shop, grocery-store, and pharmacy schedules now coincided with the migratory patterns of busy moms on the go that made me realize my stretchy, streamlined clothes were virtually indistinguishable from their plumage. True, their leggings were more deliberate than mine—conspicuously expensive, often shirred or ruffled on the sides (for flair), and frequently Capri-length—but I definitely fit into their tableau. If they huddled over post-cardio Americanos just so, you could catch the collective glimmer of their reflective Lululemon logos, and I have to admit, I did not hate it.
For years I'd decried the concept of leggings as pants and loathed flimsily sheathed camel toes at eye level on public transportation, but this was clearly not that. The moms weren't dressed like extras for a Bob Fosse show, and there wasn't the slightest hint of American Apparel retrohipster in the delivery. When unencumbered by enormous ergonomic strollers and countless baggies of snacks, they looked like patterned, color-blocked assassins. More important, I could not take my eyes off their glutes—these women's asses looked incredible.
I knew I couldn't stomach frittering away hundreds of dollars on gym garments, but then a fateful Christmas gift of Nike Epic Lux compression tights changed everything. I shimmied into them, pulling them snug with a few deep knee bends, and swung around to reveal in the mirror what part of me had always suspected—these things are a freakin' sartorial miracle. OK, I did not instantly appear two dress sizes thinner (people would go to war over those pants), but I did look markedly better. My feeble black cotton Uniqlo leggings, which became clammy and saggy at the slightest provocation, were eighty-sixed to their rightful position—as house pants—because there was simply no question of going back. These leggings were paragons of four-way-stretch, flat-lock-seamed, butt-hoisting magic. In Dri-Fit, no less!
Four pairs later, with some GapFit gFasts thrown in for good measure, I am swaddled from stem to stern in what essentially amounts to Spanx at any given moment of the day. I wake up and get dressed in gym clothes, since the practice reminds me of those countless academic studies on school uniforms indicating that they improve attendance, productivity, and grades. Gym clothes are the opposite of listlessly shambling around your living room in whatever you slept in. There's a layer of posture-straightening microfiber that serves as a constant reminder not to go back to bed.
It's another Dumbo's feather—the mental real estate freed up by the reassurance that I have at least one flattering, nondescript unit of pan-activity clothing to wear helps me get things done. Besides, I like the notion that I am dressed to exercise at a moment's notice. It gives one's outfit added purpose, as if Pilates is the Rapture and some of us (namely, those of us who are especially committed) have to be ready to be transported to a magical plane when called. Whether or not I'm in danger of actually doing anything strenuous is really beside the point; I could, now, couldn't I?
My running tights are thick, pitch black, and unusually kind to my thighs. These tights and an artfully cut, supremely soft, $80 scoop-neck tee (I've long been inducted into that cult, too; and no, I don't work out in them) are exactly what I'd want to wear in the afterlife anyway. Compared with the pinching, tricky ensembles of my youth, this uniform is a small-r revelation. There is no rushing home, tearing off shoes, hosiery, underwires, and unyielding crepe layers the second I get through the door. Instead, after class, I simply return to my desk and continue working until it gets dark.
Increasingly, I even find myself showering, blowdrying my hair, and then reaching for another pair of leggings to wear to dinner. I've never been a big fan of jeans, but I suspect leggings are supplanting them as the default setting. I am also noticing countless others dressed in kind. "Leggings have joined the pantheon of crewneck tees and white button-downs," says Rose Garcia, the fashion director at Galore. "Just don't do a cropped shirt unless you want to look like a hooker or an aerobics instructor.
Oh, I've seen cropped shirts with leggings. At Whole Foods—and I bet you have, too. I've even spied flesh-tone leggings on a woman waiting in line at the bank. There are leggings paired with pumps in dimly lit restaurants, and I can attest to having seen leggings with cutouts constructed to resemble garter stockings. That time, I was scandalized because the wearer was clearly 14. Still, it's hard to throw stones at kids when one (at 34) is wearing leggings, too.
What's considered an appropriate venue for workout wear runs the gamut. For example, I would personally only wear patterned leggings to the gym. I technically wear them to work, given that my sole officemate is a fridge, but I would hesitate to slide into them for an actual interview or a meeting. "I tried to wear a leopard-print pair with a blazer and was supremely self-conscious all day," says Jenna Wortham, a tech reporter for The New York Times. "As a concept, I like that style—professional melted into upscale casual—but I probably won't do it again."
Similarly, I wouldn't wear leggings in front of my parents. A comfort cost-benefit analysis doesn't see me coming out ahead. They are old-fashioned, and the quickness with which they'd find a linear relationship between pants and marriage would be dazzling. "I just got home from a faculty meeting in leggings, so apparently I'll wear them anywhere," says my friend Julianne Escobedo Shepherd, a music critic, professor, and all-around bon vivant. "I would avoid them for a wedding, unless they're leather, in which case we can talk." Apparently appropriateness is directly linked to how much nerve you can muster and the amount of side eye you can ignore. That said, in the last few years, there's been considerably less flak about where you can and can't wear sweatpants and sweatshirts—leggings' kissing cousins. And we've seen highminded riffs on gym clothes for seasons. "I have three types of sweatshirts," says Marisa Meltzer, a writer and SoulCycle fanatic (who does allow herself to wear SoulCycle-branded clothing). "There are the ones I wear at home, ones I wear to and from yoga and Spin, and the nice sweatshirts I wear in public. Nice sweatshirts are well-made in French terry, and they're by real designers for the most part: A.P.C., Helmut Lang, Raquel Allegra."
The list goes on. Lanvin, Isabel Marant, Band of Outsiders, and Alexander Wang are all purveyors of very cool, very expensive jersey knits. And in better department stores, there are certainly $2,000 leather leggings (probably the wedding ones of which Escobedo Shepherd speaks) available for sale from The Row. Thom Browne, known for shrewdly shrunken suits, now also offers a pair of nondescript sweatpants for $380. Givenchy's creative director, Riccardo Tisci, released his first collaboration with Nike in March—and now his Air Force 1 Hi sneakers fetch $600 on eBay.
As far as I'm concerned, couture workout togs are like concept cars: fun in theory. Even if miraculous leather leggings could be created to wick sweat and breathe, I like my workout clothes to look like workout clothes. It's not just about being comfortable and prepared to burpee at a moment's notice; I'm thrilled at the social contract. I suspect that living 24/7 in workout attire is the clothing version of the messy topknot. We all know that your hair is dirty, or too long, or too frizzy, or your roots have grown out, but we are all going to accept it as fabulous because that's the deal. I love a high-functioning modular clothing system that is accepted by even the most judgmental community. Sure, it's a little Philip K. Dick dystopian future, and I may despise it in ten years. But damned if I don't feel like I'm getting away with something in the meantime.
The funny thing is that despite my dedication to the workout life, my devotion to makeup has never flagged. If I'm getting dressed in anything, I'm also doing a full liquid-lined cat eye (what do you want? I'm still Korean) and pout of scarlet lipstick. I realize that the proper look to accompany all that Lycra is a daub of DD cream, a strong but natural brow, a simple lash extension (or serious Latisse addiction), and perhaps just a hint of the lightest but most miraculously indelible lip stain. But screw it. I might be the queen of insouciant, casual, "who cares" chic in the clothing department, but I don't want to look washed out. They haven't made pants for that yet. Ooh, maybe it'll be a shoe.
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