The Struggle Of Shopping At Lululemon

Image / Flickr – perspective

Walking into a Lululemon is a lot like how I imagine Curly Sue must have felt when she got her first really nice bath at the rich woman’s apartment- even though she knew it wasn’t real and probably wasn’t going to last long, she pretended for just a second she belonged in that life anyway.

I usually find myself wandering in Lulu because I’m hiding from something else, usually my online bank statement or a call from Comcast. I like to go into this store and pretend it’s where I always shop, as if debating between $130 polka-dot or floral yoga pants is simply my norm.

I will also occasionally come here because it’s usually highly air conditioned and maybe the beautiful Lulu girls will think I’m covered in sweat because I just got done cycling (at Soul Cycle because I’m rich, remember) and not that I’ve been chasing my dog around at a urine infested dog park, searching for a leaf big enough to pick up his deuce pile because once again I’ve forgotten to bring a bag. I’m not that girl, not at Lulu I’m not, anyway.

The peppy greeter who waits by the door in her peppy Lulu gear says hello when I walk inside and asks if she can help with anything. I smile back and tell her, “No, I’m good. Just browsing.” Which is code for, “No, I’m poor. Just pretending to shop.”

And so I browse the running shorts because Lulu-Me runs marathons, in $55 shorts no less. Shorts with a skirt on them, how adorable. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been on a jog and thought to myself, you know what these shorts are missing? A nice feminine flap over the top. I make a mental note to come back and buy the striped pair someday, like when I start to run. Or have money.

And then I see the hoodies hanging in a row and my heart melts a little. I LOVE hoodies. And the grungy middle schooler in me gets absolutely gitty over the little thumb holes Lulu has in their beautiful $140 sweatshirts with the iconic Lulu sign on the front. This would mean I wouldn’t have to slit them with a knife like I did when I was a thug. I want them all.

But it’s at this moment then the shelves upon shelves of yoga pants in all different patterns, lengths, textures, and colors beckon me over. The skinny mannequins wearing them look great and for a second I get jealous of their artificial legs and wonder if they do yoga, or if those perfectly sculpted muscles are from Pilates? Or perhaps they were just made that way.

“We’re better than you,” the mannequins taunt. “We don’t eat gluten, or carbs, or GMOs, or chocolate, or soda, or splenda, or caffeine, or alcohol, or wheat, or dairy, or meat, or food. Just your soul. soul. soul.”

I must be starting to lose it I think. And I am. This store makes me crazy. It makes me Lulu. The pretty patterns on the clothing and the photos of jacked female athletes next to inspiring life quotes on the wall swirl around me telling me to buy, buy, buy. Forget the price, Lulu’s clothes really do make you look better. There’s a reason every woman on the street proudly marks herself as a part of the cult with that small “stylized A” logo appearing somewhere on her body.

Before coming in here I was okay with my ratty old Target exercise tops and pants that I bought off the clearance rack for $5.99 a piece. They get the job done. And by “job” I mean day drinking on my patio or laying on my couch for endless hours watching Orange Is The New Black.

But this place makes me think I need a $74 racerback top with the three stripes across the chest. I NEED IT. If I buy it I will probably start working out. And then I will have more energy. And then I will have a better job. And more money. And better hair. And skin. And relationships. And my dog will learn how to pick up his own poop. And I will no longer question where my life is going every single day…

Why would I? I have a beautiful new work out top that is made from material that is sweat resistant, that also magically transforms the scent of body odor into that of a spring rain shower falling into a pond at the base of a lavender volcano. It’s called lyrca, I think.

But then.

But then I’m brought back to life when another Lulu girl suddenly appears and asks if I’d like a dressing room. A dressing room? Like to try this stuff on?

“No, I’m good,” I lie. The yoga pants I typically buy come in sizes like small, medium, large and one size fits all because they’re marked down to $5 so I’m buying them regardless of how low the crotch area sags. Yoga pants sized like dress pants just confuse me. And yoga pants sized even smaller than normal dress pants just make me feel bad about myself.

And so as quickly as I imagined my new fake life with my new fake wardrobe, I say good bye to it all.

I walk outside, back into my reality and am once again the sane, practical person who realizes Lululemon yoga pants won’t make me a better person, or give me a better life. That’s just silly and we all know it.

But I think everyone can agree they most definitely give you a better ass. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

Taylor is a student at the Second City and iO in Chicago and sometimes she likes to pretend she’s a stand-up comedian. Her website is

Keep up with Taylor on Twitter and

More From Thought Catalog