I should have known when the delivery date was five weeks away that the $14, matte, lightweight, compression leggings were not exactly like Lululemon. I should have known they were coming from somewhere far far away with a very different ideal of what compression and lightweight mean.
I should have canceled the order, but I was so hopeful that $14 was all my stay-at-home-mom uniform would cost me. I am not ready to retire my taste for Madewell jeans in favor of something that flatters my new mom bod. If I just run a little faster and pedal a little longer, maybe my skinny jeans will be loose enough to pass for the mom jeans Gen Z is so fond of right now. (Does it even work that way?)
The point is, I didn’t want to spend a bunch of money on clothes when I don’t know where this body is going to land post-twins and pre-middle-age. So I bought myself interim apparel: not one, but two pairs of $14 leggings with over 7,000 positively fake reviews.
Sure, I thought it was suspicious when the delivery date was pushed back and when I couldn’t track the package, but I was committed to saving my money for when the pandemic clears and my kids can take care of themselves and I can go out with my friend for cocktails. (Yes, I have one friend. That was not a typo.)
Five weeks into my wait, I was going to cancel when the fat package arrived. Fat is not a word that should ever be used to describe lightweight compression leggings, but I tried not to notice. Mama finally got some fresh spandex to replace her 12-year-old-pair of too-tight Lululemon pants.
I opened the over-stuffed package, and without opening the plastic packaging the leggings came in, I knew I’d been scammed. I can’t say I was shocked to find shiny, polyester, gaucho pants in dayglo orange, and I can’t say I wasn’t disappointed.
I waited five weeks for this, and what I learned was when life gives you lemons, buy Lulu.