Exercising in pink: Hot or not?

In college, I developed an overwhelming dislike of pink workout attire. Well, not just pink workout gear, but matching pink workout gear. White sneaks with pink Nike swooshes, yoga pants with pink trim, and cute tanks with pink accents. All at once! And pink hair ribbons? Don't even get me started. Is the gym really the place for a fashion show of femininity?

Well, if the gym is entitled the Estro-gym, as Williams College's all-cardio equipment workout area was woefully named, I suppose it is asking for just such a display. Unsurprisingly, this is also where my dislike for such a wardrobe began. But doesn't being in a space called the Estro-gym deem such a show unnecessary? Testosterone, be damned! Just walking into this space apparently demands that the entrant possess a pair of X chromosomes. Aren't the ensuing pink trimmings simply reinforcing what is already known and expected?

Moreover, has any male ever entered the Estro-gym? These women are essentially declaring their femininity to the other women in pink tanks, reading Cosmo on the other ellipticals. This is quite literally fruitless.

But surely, there must be a time and a place for some pink workout gear. Every woman likes to feel feminine in her own way, and for many, this involves some harmless color association. I am not above this. But where and when would this practice hold the most value? I fancy myself to have found an answer.

I joined a boxing gym a few weeks ago and immediately faced a dilemma. What color handwraps to buy? Black, red, yellow, or ... pink?

Pink handwraps? But that would go against my deep-seated hatred of combining pink and sweat. And trust me, I have never been more aware of how many pores are on my hands, than I am at the end of a boxing workout. To wrap all of that sweat up in pink is a mind-blowing visual manifestation of all things Estro-gym. Could I really bring myself to that?

Yes. Yes, I could. The Ring is just the space for feminine flair. With 215-pound John and 185-pound Juan to my left and right, and Athena's rock-solid delts in front of me, I rather enjoy a subtle reminder (to myself and to others) that I am, in fact, a woman.

A boxer's hands make the final movements in an exertion of torque that produces a powerful jab, cross, hook, uppercut, or some combination of the above. The hands get the final say. Mine are drenched and callused, yes -- but pink.

Boom.

Say Yes to the Dress meets Jersey Shore

Ever since I blogged about Things I Can't Blog About, I've spent a lot of time not blogging. This comes as no surprise.

I have also spent a lot of time moving across town, getting my car started by AAA, shopping for a wedding dress, and boxing. Yes, boxing -- no, not in the ring, but yes, with gloves on, and yes, with muscular men. And obviously I wear sleeveless tees. Oh -- and, no, the wedding dress was not for me. But I did get to watch several brides-to-be find the dresses of their dreams.

I know you've all seen MTV's hit, Jersey Shore. Don't be ashamed -- it's almost obligatory to have seen an episode at this point, to be able to partake in any sort of conversation that involves pop culture. And we all know how important those conversations are at dinner parties. I submit that one who does not enjoy making fun of Snooki will never enjoy life. Don't you want to enjoy life?

Probably significantly fewer of you have seen TLC's Say Yes to the Dress, which follows brides-to-be through a day of shopping at Kleinfeld, Manhattan's gown kingdom. Kleinfeld houses the largest selection of wedding dresses in the world, and an afternoon of shopping there is an experience in itself. I tagged along with a college friend, Sam, on her trip to Kleinfeld last weekend, and got to leave the real world, rife with disarray, disappointment, and JWows, behind -- to enter an all-white, no-blemishes-allowed dream, where happily ever after was the next step for all. A bride goes there to find a gown that she can admire for a lifetime. A mother goes and weeps as her daughter finds a dress that mimics her beauty and innocence.

We -- the bride-to-be, her mother, aunt, and bridal party of four -- went out to brunch beforehand and enjoyed a few mimosas, while chatting excitedly about dress and wedding details and ideas. We arrived at Kleinfeld and admired the classical decor and chandeliers as we waited for Keisha, Sam's bridal consultant, to usher us onto the floor. Once there, we took a seat on one of the plush sofas, admiring the racks of beautiful gowns with their lace and tulle and satin, and whatever other materials wedding dresses are made of.

My daze was abruptly interrupted when the bride at the platform next to Sam's came out of her dressing room in a "gown" with a see-through, lace corset top, and long, tulle skirt. Lace? Normal. Tulle skirt? Normal. See-through? Normal ... for lingerie. As this bride took her place in front of the mirror and adjusted her boobs, her party ooh-ed and awe-d and exclaimed, "How traditional!"

This begged the question, to what sort of tradition were these women referring? Surely not the abovementioned version of tradition that the other brides at Kleinfeld seemed to seek. Could this party have been referring to some sort of tradition exclusive to those on the Jersey Shore? My heart pounded, eyes aglow, as I realized the value of my seat as audience to this bridal party's podium. This bride could only be from the real-life Jersey Shore and she was clearly sent to Kleinfeld to entertain me.

I watched as her bridal consultant approached her, and tugged on the long tulle skirt, which fell off to reveal a barely-there mini skirt. Reception-ready!* I could only imagine what the mini-skirt would tear away to reveal. Bedroom-ready! Three-in-one combo! The best wedding dress is obviously one that can double as a tool of seduction in the honeymoon suite. Right, mom? Dad? Dad??

I thank you, Jersey Shore, for another 30 minutes of irreplaceable, unpredictable, can't-make-it-up, entertainment.

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* Lower-right image