Updated: June 1, 2017
Originally Published: Oct. 5, 2016
Let’s clear the air: my fondness for leggings runs deep. They’ve come to my aid during those moments when I’ve felt more bloated than a beach ball and when the thought of squeezing into button-up pants sends me into a minor panic. There’s nothing like the relief of slipping into a cozy pair of leggings or yoga pants after a long day of holding in my mom tummy. Trust me, my abs practically sing in relief when I slide into my favorite fleece-lined leggings. I nearly knocked my child over the other day while wrestling my business pants off, my abs launching out like a slingshot.
Leggings are definitely a mom’s best ally. I get it, I really do.
But despite this, I’m going to have to pass on your LuLaRoe leggings, so please stop asking me, alright?
For those not in the know, LuLaRoe leggings are currently a hot topic in the realm of mom fashion. Just uttering “LuLaRoe” ignites excitement among its fans, who light up as if it’s Christmas morning. I have friends who rave about their LuLaRoe finds, gazing dreamily as they bask in the softness of the fabric against their thighs. Entire Facebook groups are dedicated to these leggings, and I’ve witnessed grown women squabble over the chance to own these pricey wardrobe staples.
When I inquired about what makes LuLaRoe leggings so special, one friend looked me straight in the eye and said, “They feel like butter on your legs.” And she didn’t say “butter”; she said “buttah,” mimicking a comical accent. It seems “they feel like buttah” is the most common description of these leggings. If I hear it one more time, I might just lose it.
Now, before you get all riled up, I genuinely admire the hustle of a woman working hard to support her family. Hosting pop-up parties, managing inventory, and keeping customers satisfied while juggling preschool drop-offs is no small feat. All the respect to those trying to earn a little extra cash.
But seriously, there must be a simpler way than wading through Facebook battles just to purchase a pair of leggings for my Grey’s Anatomy binge sessions.
While I can appreciate that wearing leggings that feel butter-soft is likely fantastic, the real issue lies with LuLaRoe’s sales strategies. If you’ve been anywhere near social media, you’ve probably found yourself added to a private LuLaRoe Facebook group without your consent. Consultants often add their entire friend list and then pressure them to invite more friends for a chance at free clothes.
For instance, I was added to my 36th LuLaRoe group last week during an “add party,” and my inbox was flooded with 50 messages from an overly enthusiastic consultant filled with exclamation points. Is this really how we shop for clothes now?
I have no time for this madness!
I’m sure the leggings are comfortable. I bet angels sing when you pull them on over your tired mom hips. But if they were that incredible, wouldn’t Target carry them? Shouldn’t I be able to order them via Amazon during a cozy Prime and Wine shopping spree from my couch?
If you want me to consider your product, LuLaRoe, make it easy. I have enough challenges in my day without turning a simple legging purchase into a complicated ordeal involving a catfight, PayPal transactions, and a time-sensitive invoice for a one-of-a-kind print.
Another reason I’m not interested in those buttery leggings is that I refuse to pester my friends or drag them into a high-pressure sales environment. I need them for carpool, and I’m not willing to jeopardize those friendships over leggings adorned with bizarre watermelon patterns. Seriously, pizza slice leggings? Time to take a break.
I attempted to leave a LuLaRoe group three times last week. Three times! Forget building walls; just station LuLaRoe consultants at the border. No one would make it through, I assure you.
And just so we’re clear: the next person who adds me to a LuLaRoe group will feel the wrath of my foot.
As if the high-pressure sales and questionable designs aren’t enough, the price tag for a pair of these leggings is downright outrageous. At nearly $40 each, they seem more akin to luxury brands than a simple pair of leggings. I work hard for my money, and while I believe in treating myself, the effort involved in spending $40 on leggings covered in oversized pizza slices isn’t worth it.
I don’t have the time to scroll through countless photos, add all my friends to a group, and plead with a consultant for a plain black pair. I’m perfectly satisfied with my Target leggings, thanks—especially since Target has coffee!
In conclusion
LuLaRoe consultants need to relax a bit.
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Summary:
This article humorously critiques the LuLaRoe leggings phenomenon, sharing personal experiences and frustrations with the high-pressure sales tactics and the complicated purchasing process. The author expresses admiration for women hustling in the business but remains resolute in her decision not to engage with LuLaRoe products.
Keyphrase: LuLaRoe leggings
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