When I go to the gym my aims are threefold: get in, get out, and try not to sweat over a stranger. I’ve perfected the gym wardrobe to white trainers with pink laces (because I think I’m 10), a black vest (slimming) and purple ‘yoga pants’ (which fold over and hug my tummy, much like depressing maternity trousers. Oh, the joys of what’s to come). I also wear pearl stud earrings, because they give my otherwise depressing get-up an air of class, like the Duchess of Cambridge visiting London Zoo.
But there are plenty of my fellow panting patrons who are way into their gym look – from their clever, immovable hair to their enviable trainers. Personally, I’m just happy if my toes don’t go numb on the crosstrainer and my rowing machine hand callouses aren’t too thick.
And sportswear fashion isn’t just prevalent in the gym, oh no. It’s on the high street, on the streets of Shoreditch and on the catwalk. And it’s been there for decades.
I’m a girliegirl; the thought of getting a bit more ‘ghetto’ with my style scares my sensibility. I’d prefer to sit back and watch the ‘streetsters’ do it, a la ‘Fresh Prince of Bel Air’, circa now.
As it turns out, street postmodernism isn’t just about Banksy (much to my chagrin). Wherever you look are past season’s trends with a twist, crashing together loudly and obnoxiously. And if they happen to feature some DJ mixing, beat-driven outdoor LA rave with obligatory palm trees and car parks, so much the better.
Sod my yoga pants; it might be time for me to go all ‘clashing cultures’ and reinvent my sportswear image to Jazzy Jeff-meets-London-lady. Harlem pants and pearls, perhaps? I’m so not LA.