Let’s clear the air: my adoration for leggings runs deep. They’ve been my saving grace during those moments when I feel like a water balloon or when the thought of squeezing into button-up pants sends me into a panic. After a long day of holding in my not-so-toned mom belly, there’s nothing better than slipping into a cozy pair of yoga pants or leggings. I swear my abs sigh with relief when I finally put on my favorite fleece-lined pair, and let me tell you, I almost sent my kid flying the other day when I launched out of my business attire like a slingshot.
Leggings get it. They’re every mom’s best buddy.
I get the hype, I really do. But please stop trying to sell me your LuLaRoe leggings; I’m not interested, alright?
For those unfamiliar with the brand, LuLaRoe leggings are a hot topic in the realm of mom fashion. Just mentioning LuLaRoe causes devoted fans to light up like Christmas lights on overdrive. I have friends who gush about how fantastic their LuLaRoe leggings are, staring dreamily into space as if wrapped in pure bliss. Entire Facebook groups are dedicated to these leggings, and I’ve never seen so many adults squabbling like children over what amounts to a pricey piece of clothing.
Curious about the appeal, I once asked a friend what made LuLaRoe leggings so special. She looked me straight in the eye and declared, “They feel like buttah on your legs.” Only she didn’t say “butter.” No, she said “buttah,” channeling a bizarre version of a talk show host. Apparently, “they feel like buttah” is the most common description, and if I hear it one more time, I might just need to shove a stick of real butter down LuLaRoe’s throat.
Let’s be clear: I respect any woman hustling to support her family. Hosting pop-up parties, managing fluctuating inventory, and keeping customers happy while racing to preschool is no easy feat. I genuinely admire the effort to bring home some extra cash. But come on! Is there not a simpler way than having me battle other women on Facebook for a pair of leggings I’ll wear while binging Grey’s Anatomy?
While I can appreciate how glorious it might feel to wear leggings that feel like buttah, the sales tactics of LuLaRoe are a real turn-off. If you’ve been online at all, you’ve likely been added to a private LuLaRoe group against your will. Consultants add their entire friend list, then pressure them to recruit more unsuspecting folks with promises of free clothing for the most successful recruiter.
Last week, I was added to my 36th LuLaRoe group during an “add party,” and my inbox was instantly flooded with dozens of peppy posts from an overly enthusiastic consultant. Really? Is this how we shop now?
I genuinely have no time for this madness.
I’m sure the leggings are comfy; angels might even sing when you pull them over your weary mom hips. But let’s be real: if they were that fantastic, wouldn’t you find them at Target? Wouldn’t I be able to snag them on Amazon during a Prime and Wine binge from the comfort of my couch?
If you want me to buy your leggings, make it easy. I already jump through enough hoops daily; don’t make the process of purchasing leggings into a complicated endeavor involving cat fights, PayPal, and an invoice that must be settled in 13 minutes, or I’ll lose out on that one-of-a-kind pizza print.
Another reason I’ll never know the comfort of LuLaRoe leggings is that I refuse to pressure my friends or drag them into a high-pressure sales environment. I need them for carpooling and will not risk adding them to a group where someone is trying to convince us that leggings covered in watermelon slices are a good idea. Seriously, go home, pizza slice leggings; you’re intoxicated!
I attempted to leave a LuLaRoe group three times last week. Three times! Forget about borders; just station LuLaRoe consultants there. No one’s getting through on their watch.
And just so we’re clear: the next person who adds me to a LuLaRoe group is getting a swift kick to the LuLaButthole, got it?
As if the high-pressure sales tactics and questionable designs weren’t enough, the pricing for these buttery leggings is outrageous. At nearly $40 each, I’m left feeling like I’m being sold leggings made from gold. I work hard for my money, and while I fully support treating oneself, there’s simply too much hassle involved to spend that much on leggings featuring giant pizza slices.
I don’t have the time to scroll through endless photo albums, recruit a ton of friends, and beg a consultant for a pair of elusive plain black LuLaRoes. No thanks, I’m sticking with my Target leggings, which conveniently come with a coffee bar.
LuLaRoe, your consultants need to chill out.
If you need me, I’ll be busy extricating myself from this LuLaRoe group hell and giving a sassy middle finger to their overpriced leggings.
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In summary, while leggings are wonderful, the hassle of LuLaRoe’s sales tactics and high prices can be frustrating. There must be a better way to shop without the added drama.