On my morning jog yesterday on Sunday morning, all I could see was a sea of Lycra — honestly, as far as my eye could stretch, the entire fabric of society looked stretched and unstitched at the same time. Everywhere tights, tights, tights. Compression. Synthetic sheen. The global uniform of faux‑fitness. Women’s activewear has metastasised into a worldwide aesthetic, and I find it absolutely deplorable.
It’s no longer clothing for movement! it’s a costume. A uniform. A synthetic second skin worn by women who, let’s be honest, are rarely being active. Tight Lorna Jane, tits spilling out, bottoms hoisted high with the bum crack emphasised like a neon sign, hair blown out like they’re en route to a Vogue shoot rather than a gym. It’s become a cultural shorthand: “I’m fit, I’m busy, I’m important,” even when the only exercise involved is lifting a frappe to the lips.
Recently I watched two women gliding along the river walking and jogging track — one clutching Chanel, the other Fendi, frappes in hand, contoured perfection, hair blown out within an inch of its life — dressed head‑to‑toe in activewear. Not a bead of sweat. Not a hint of exertion. Just the performance. It made me cringe and recoil with utter disdain. It wasn’t the bodies. It wasn’t the women. It was the sheer theatricality of it all, the pretending. The curated sloppiness. The faux‑fitness aesthetic that has somehow become the global uniform for simply existing in public.
For the record, I am a gay man; I adore and champion all women! The powerful, the fabulous, the mothers, the bitches, the trad wives – All Women. I fully support and encourage their empowerment, their sexuality, their ownership of their bodies. But this particular cultural moment — this worldwide epidemic of Lycra‑as‑lifestyle — makes me nauseas.
Now let’s say I decided to exercise in a tight jock strap or leggings with my bulge on show, packaged and triumphantly bouncing away with abandon, I would be met with sneers, ridicule, and a complaint from a Karen or the local police. Women want to flaunt but get furious when anyone comments. The double standard is baked into the man-made fabric. I stand 100 percent behind what I say — because I am not critiquing women, I am critiquing the aesthetic they’ve been sold.
What grates is not the bodies, but the presentation. The absence of class. The abandonment of intention. There was a time when powerful women understood silhouette, mystery, and the art of dressing.
Think Joan Collins, a woman who could walk into a room and rearrange the air. She doesn’t need to be naked or compressed into Lycra to exude sexuality; she radiates it through posture, tailoring, and presence. Think Daphne Guinness — sculptural, spectral, impossible to ignore. A woman who treats clothing as architecture, not as stretchy beige or black casing. Think Jane Fonda — athletic, disciplined, sensual without ever being sloppy. Even in her workout tapes, she had dignity. She had intention. She had standards. Yes, she wore leotards which I’m sure were made of lyra too but the occasion was warranted.
Then there is Anna Wintour, the Grand Dame and retired editor of Vogue who certainly needs no introduction. She plays tennis — properly, seriously — yet you will never find her wandering around in sagging leggings with everything spilling out – I could not even find photos when doing my research. Anna is a class act and an enigma. On the court she is appropriately dressed: chic, controlled, razor‑sharp, with that serve of C‑‑t in the best possible way. She embodies the idea that you can be active, powerful, and sexual without looking like you’ve been poured into synthetic Lycra at 8am. She understands that elegance is a discipline, not an accident. She understands that clothing communicates something long before the body inside it does.
That is the point: it’s not about modesty; it’s about standards. About intention. About the difference between being active and performing active. Between dressing for movement and dressing for attention. Between genuine empowerment and the hollow mimicry of it.
Activewear culture has convinced women that compression tights and crop tops are a form of liberation. But liberation without discernment is just chaos, and chaos, when stretched over the body, becomes visual noise. It becomes the aesthetic equivalent of shouting. It becomes a kind of cultural laziness — effort disguised as ease, sexuality disguised as empowerment, sloppiness disguised as confidence.
This isn’t a Brisbane problem! it’s worldwide. Walk through Los Angeles, London, Milan, Sydney, Singapore, New York and the same uniform appears. The same synthetic sheen. The same “I woke up like this” performance that actually requires more effort than simply dressing well. It’s global. It’s ubiquitous. It’s become the default costume for womanhood in the 2020s: a kind of Lycra‑wrapped nihilism.
I have finally had enough and I find it revolting. Not because I dislike women. Not because I dislike bodies. But because I dislike what this aesthetic represents: the erosion of standards. The flattening of individuality. The disappearance of mystery. The abandonment of elegance. Clothing used not as expression, but as camouflage. A way to blend into a cultural moment that rewards sameness and punishes discernment.
Activewear culture tells women they’re empowered. But empowerment without taste is just noise. Empowerment without intention is just branding. Empowerment without elegance is just marketing copy printed on a pair of leggings. I sure Coco Chanel would be rolling in her grave if she knew her clutches were being paired with such aesthetics.
Women deserve better than this. They deserve clothing that honours their bodies rather than compresses them into a single global silhouette. They deserve fashion that elevates rather than flattens. They deserve the kind of aesthetic power that Joan Collins, Daphne Guinness, Jane Fonda, and Anna Wintour embody — power that comes from presence, not from polyester.
I love women. I celebrate women. But this activewear culture? It’s a worldwide delusion — and I’m not buying it.
© 2026 Léon J A Shelton. All rights reserved. This work is protected under Australian and international copyright law. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, stored, shared, forwarded, or transmitted in any form — including digital, print, screenshot, or excerpt — without the prior written permission of the author. Unauthorised use, distribution, or adaptation of this material is strictly prohibited.