The other day I bought a pair of Lululemon yoga pants. I know what you’re thinking, Jess, you’re a college student. You live on way less than $800 a month, you’re basically struggling to stay alive every single day, how could you possibly afford $98 yoga pants?
The answer is, I can’t. I really, super can’t afford Lululemon yoga pants. I don’t really know many people that can justify spending that much on yoga pants either. Thats why I was beyond surprised to find them, brand new, tags still on them, at a secondhand shop. They also happen to be neon yellow, but that’s beside the point. They’re Lululemon.
If you’ve got no idea what I’m talking about, Lululemon is a high-end athletic wear brand. Their basic clothing items usually sell from anywhere between $75 and $250, and they boast about having their own special patented supersecret fabric or something.
When you walk into Lululemon, you are greeted by endlessly peppy, fit, and impeccably dressed employees. They’ll probably ask you if you’re a runner or a yogi, but they can usually tell their kind from the rest. Their kind, of course, are the people that are already wearing Lululemon, and don’t try to dart inconspicuously to the back of the store to find the seemingly nonexistant sale section.
If you couldn’t tell already, Lululemon is an “aspirational” company. As you can imagine, that can be pretty problematic when it comes to the real world and the people that live in it. Sadly, Lulu has become popular for their discriminatory sizing practices, and basically hiding the “larger” sizes in the back stock, far away from the “aspirational” ones. When looking at the display racks, the largest size you’re likely to find is an 8, or a “Medium.” That means that I, usually a size 10, would have to ask an employee for my size specifically. If you’re anything like me, having to ask someone for something I should be able to find myself is pretty frustrating. Some people would be too shy or wouldn’t even bother, which would keep those “larger” people (like me) out of Lululemon clothes. Sad, right?
Back to the secondhand shop where I bought the pants. They were on the rack, listed under my size, ready for me to find them. I picked them up and giggled to myself, shocked at the color, and ran to show my roommate. She promptly told me I had to get them. They were Lululemon for Pete’s sake!
I decided to get them as an experiment.
When I got home, I tried them on. They shone in their neon yellow glory.
I waited for the magic to happen. I expected to suddenly have that ripe, sculpted ass that the Lululemon
cult fans supposedly inherit from the pants. I expected to suddenly have an influx of money and superfit friends that I could go on juice cleanses with. I expected to suddenly be amazing at yoga, and be able to launch into scorpion pose straightaway. I expected to have that Lululemon glow.
But like I suspected back in the store, all I had were pants.
Wearing a certain brand will not make you a certain kind of person, just like wearing a layer of cheese will not make you a pizza. Yoga pants are yoga pants, and nothing else. They’re not a status symbol, not booty shapeshifters, and certainly not a tool to measure one’s self-worth.
They were see-through, however, so that might just make my weekly yoga class a tiny bit sexier.
In the long run, I don’t think I’ll be purchasing many other products from Lululemon, especially not neon yellow ones. Maybe I just don’t “get” it. Maybe they curse all their merchandise once it sells for less than full price. Either way, I can’t afford to find out.
Anybody want to buy some yoga pants? I’ve only worn them once.
What do you think of the Lulu craze?
Do you own anything Lululemon? Did it change your life?