I would like to offer you an apology.
I spent years making fun of you. I was even a member of a Facebook group called "Down with Lulu Lemon." This deep seated prejudice was the result of the fact that my arch enemies, Dumb Rich Girls from My Hometown of Oakville, Ontario, have adopted you as your uniform. You can see them at the mall or walking home from high school wearing identical black Lulu Lemon yoga pants, candy coloured Lulu Lemon hoodies (all different colours, of course, because having the same clothes as your friends would be OMG mortifying), and carrying giant Lulu Lemon tote bags. This cult of Lulu Lemon leads these girls to abandon school work and reading books, pursuits which their 25 hour a week retail jobs do not leave them time to enjoy. Their entire pay check is then spent on gas for driving their daddy's Benz to the mall in Mississauga in order to stay up to date with the latest Lulu additions.
And so I wrote you off as brand slavery. How ironic that the ancient spiritual pursuit of yoga has become the platform for yuppie consumer culture, I scoffed.
Then I went to a clothing swap, where a pair of said uniform black Lulus were up for grabs. I needed more workout clothes, and decided that the fact I got them at a clothing swap cancelled out the brand name, so I took you home with me.
Then, last night, I went out for drinks after class where I ate deep fried zucchini sticks followed by half an alfredo pizza with three cheeses and M&Ms. I quickly required freedom from the confinement of a waistband. I went home and put you on.
Your stretchy, yet substantial fabric hugged my love handles like a mother cradling a newborn baby. You were supportive and forgiving. You made my butt look fabulous.
I must admit that in the past, I have marveled to myself at your ability to look like dress pants to the untrained eye. You are a shape-shifting miracle of modern technology. You are consumer culture's gift to women.
I still would never pay full retail price for you, Lulus. But I will never mock you again.