My name is Jo and I loathe leggings.
I go to the gym about three or four times a week. I’m not boasting, I’m actually just really tight; I bought myself gym membership a few months ago and now I’m out for all I can get. Do I want to go for a run on the treadmill next to a 65 year old man in lycra instead of watching Eastenders? Yes I do. Shall I spend some time on a spin bike that makes my bum feel like I’ve actually been sitting on a fence? Bring it on. Would it be great to Zumba until I’ve literally sweated off my nail polish? Hell yeah.
For the record, the nail polish thing is absolutely true. A few weeks ago I went into a Zumba class with red nail polish on all ten fingers, came out with nail polish on only six. No idea what happened to the other four fingers. Never mind shaking my thang; I appear to have been shaking my black cherry chutney (genuine name of a nail polish colour) all over the place.
At the gym, you see lots of people in leggings. It’s standard gym attire, I think it’s safe to say that probably 95% of women wear leggings to exercise in. The problem with this is that leggings come in a variety of standards of quality. Buying leggings from the cheaper end of the market can lead to the clothing becoming less opaque over time and showing off whatever you are wearing underneath.
It’s not just gym leggings that suffer with this affliction, regular leggings can too. Brad and I were virtually flashed at by a belegginged lady at the weekend and it really was not a pretty sight.
There is a girl who attends one of my exercise classes who experiences this unforeseen exposure and I feel for her. I don’t want to see her pants and I have no doubt that she doesn’t want me to see them, but I’m now past the point of being able to take action. The first time the pants were grinning at me through the leggings I should have told her. I should have said ‘Hey lady in leggings, less arse coverage than you were hoping for in those bad boys, might want to pop down to JD Sports for a new pair” but I didn’t. Now, as punishment for my cowardy cowardy custard ways, I get to see tomorrow’s washing with every press up, sit up and jumping jack she cares to undertake.
I fear suffering a similar knicker exposé as retribution and am constantly attempting to check out my bottom at every available opportunity to check for legging transparency. I’ve become obsessed, stretching the material to see if I can read the paper through it before it’s worn. You know, because that’s the best approach; make the fabric thinner. I will even randomly, with no prior warning bend over in front of Brad and yell like a crazy lady “CAN YOU SEE MY KNICKERS?”.
My name is Jo, and I loathe leggings.