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

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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