Until I saw the new clerk at my gym give me a somewhat subtle once over, it hadn’t really dawned on me how I dress for daily sweating and pain. I suppose I look like a boxer from North Philly ready to do some damage. My tattered sweatshirt spattered with years of paint, and threadbare from one too many washings, may have run its course, even if I haven’t.
Am I the last one on the planet that doesn’t plan her gym attire? After the circumspect check-in, I climbed aboard a StairMaster and observed the other rats. The hues of pinks and blues rivaled a baby shower. The spandex was generous enough to slingshot the space shuttle to the moon. I think Nike and Reebok spawned and created a new race.
Motoring away under my own power, climbing the stairway to heaven, I thought about my writing and wondered about my “voice.” Uniqueness is what we all have, if we can be brave enough to say it out loud. Wouldn’t it be great if we all listened to that inner voice and dressed according to our mood and not what is on the rack at Macy’s? What about our automobiles? Boring. Wouldn’t it be easier to find you car in the lot if each one was individual? Maybe a Edward Hopper Chevy or a Georgia O’Keeffe Dodge. Or for those of us truly unique, a one of a kind designed by you.
Mine would definitely be Jackson Pollock-like. Now, if I could just transfer my sweatshirt to the hood of my Mercury.
What would your gym clothes or car say about you if you could shout it to the world?