Libération Lululemon: The light in the darkest corners of Westfield

A feeling has come over me recently ever since my legs have stopped rubbing together on the Lighty -- but only after investing in traditionally daggy workout-wear that actually works, guys (over continuing to suffer in something ‘cooler’).

I can best describe this feeling as a “yeah ok, wow” kind of feeling. A how-great-is-it-when-your-clothes-do-their-job and your-tights-don't-ride-up kind of feeling. A too-good-to-be-true, why-haven’t-I-done-this-sooner, maybe-life-isn’t-so-cruel kind of feeling.

Words by:
Penelope Benson @homecoming.store

Photo by:
Lisa Weizenmuller

Furthermore, my breasts have never been more beautifully cemented to my chest, and in one bra, not two (or three). Who knew? The inner of my thighs never more nurtured for finally choosing function over fashion--for finally cutting my crap and showing love for my body’s largest organ over fear of looking like a fucking loser--all whilst forgiving myself for every time I ever cared, and called any of these very simple prerogatives and pleasures guilty.

Since the chafe has ceased I’ve also been able to unconsciously send electricity back to my crown chakra and now I might as well be downloading messages from God, bitches. But until I can confirm this, at the very least I have discovered I can and am naturally thinking of things now (other than constantly having to estimate the acceptable amount of time to leave between crotch pulls in public, day in, day out, Lighthouse Road up, Lighthouse Road down).

I’ve even been able to test my “fitness” and it turns out I can nearly (edit: can now), drop the punctuation and run the entire thing because I’m not tugging at there/in pain anymore and for fucks sake, finally comfortable. 

And on the note of running, how good is running. Yes, that’s right how good is moving your body in ways that you haven’t for years when all the current webriture, instanoise and people you’re running laps around on the couch in general anyway have advised you not to. That’s on top of the shitty clothing that kept you small, slow and looking like everyone else in the first place. 

I’ve personally never felt better and stronger in my self-governance as a result of my discoveries and so I feel I’ll continue to do what I want with my adrenals and in my Adidas (more Rebel Sport, Tweed Heads than anything Yeezy or Stella by the way, Lululemon more specifically, Adidas just sounded better but both being my point). 

I’ve even broken a multiple months long creative dry spell simply by succumbing to untrendy activewear and have even been writing as I run (well, you know what I mean) and I’m going to absolutely put it down to the energy returning up to my brain from my groin this week.

And within all this new brain activity, it has also got me thinking of all the other ways I can and do already apply the Lululemon Theory to my life, because in the altered words of something I’ve read previously on the internet: I’m not alive just to pay bills and be cool (as a writer, clearly)... Or be a RUSSH flat-lay and die, in mine. So, in the effort to make these obvious things more salient, what about cow’s milk? No, I wanna talk about it, why not? Sometimes? “Just a regular fucking cappuccino, thanks Mr. Barista,” and at a café that no one really cares about, for that matter. 

I know, how about Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert (because I don’t care anymore, it changed my life) and holding it face-up, on a bus, no wait ON A TRAIN, a packed one (admitting that that’s one of my favourite songs to sing to too and yes you heard me correctly I love to SING, TOO). I also love God, and especially Goddy music and I also love musicals and just love love in general. And so what are you gonna do about it, huh?

Whatever this and that might be more personally for you, what might not be the most fabulous thing but whatever helps you feel less pain and helps bring you more peace... I encourage you to hold it up, too. Literally or figuratively (and fine, on your public transport of choice), tattoo it on your forehead like your mother has always told you to: literally or figuratively, get inked and hold. It. Erp.

And while we’re here (are we still here?), can I just rhetorically ask one more time how lush is it writing about leggings?! Leggings and also just letting go, not of ourselves (hello, we’re runners now) but of the prison bars we are the sole owner builders of in the jail for crimes against too many fucks given.

And not to be misunderstood, I hate being misunderstood, I actually love clothes (née fashion, but I also hate that word). I have grown up in it and it remains my bread and butter and the thing I spend most of my bread and butter on (aside from bread and butter - I’m even eating it right now). But these days if it doesn’t work or I should say – spread - it’s a pain in the arse and I definitely should have taken it out of the fridge a little earlier.

In all seriousness though, because despite all the jokes I actually yearn to be taken seriously (Venus in Capricorn, go figure etc.), I do feel now at 34 years of age I’m just realising that not  all that glitters is  gold. I can absolutely believe that that was definitely butter and that life is very much about not only accepting but embracing this wonderful dual-essence that is not only available to us within the previously lamer levels of Westfield (but not anymore, obviously) but is also at the very nature of our existence. (This is where I stop physically talking about tights, stick with me). Our options, and most of all opportunities still for love, happiness, the softest skin imaginable lie in both the light and dark at both ends of the spectrum (or sides of the Yin-Yang symbol you see on every t-shirt and telegraph pole in this town).

I want to emphasise that we shouldn't shit on The Dark, also (I said shit on but I wouldn't recommend in, either). If we could more readily see duality as the buttery-soft high-tech fabric that helps us keep our shit together, on our toes, moving freely and with more elasticity in a world where the only real constant is change (makes sense, no?) then I think we’d all be a lot more comfortable and a lot less miserable. 

Or maybe I should just speak for myself.

My greatest ideas, bouts of creativity and the creation of my community ultimately have come from my darkest moments (and Lord have I had them), from unwillingly and willingly sitting in the dark (@nimbusco), facing and expressing my darkness (my blog, lol) and from which now beautiful things have grown (@homecoming.store). 

But I’m also not here to give shout-outs and die. 

What I’m furthermore trying to say is that my most enlightened times, the times where I have felt the most elation and satisfaction and joy have come from my non-resistance of the dark. From  learning to entertain and communicate its intrinsic, unavoidable necessaryness in relation to my personal experience (always, never not) whilst simultaneously discovering that: you know what? Things don't always have to be amazzzing, babe -- and it’s actually a hashtag blessing. 

And through the sharing of my daggiest and darkest thoughts and experiences I may have found my greatest strength, steadfast companion and absolutely the thing that lights me up the most: writing. And now I’m in Paradiso. Go figure, again.

I’m telling you there is magic in the dark, guys. Big Magic (and considerably less chafe) and I owe it everything. I can’t help but wonder what we all could do if we ‘bought new tights,’ less work-out gear, more a way of life. While I do, you can catch me outside having a conversation with the Big Man, dripping head to goddamn toe in Align. ™