Wrong pants.
It was the morning of October 12, 2019 and I was sprawled out on my spacious and quintessentially American queen-sized bed, very much still in the actual United States, wearing yoga pants and sipping coffee.
I was about to go on a run and mindlessly scrolling through YouTube when I saw that a new video had come out from Alexa Chung, the impossibly cool It-girl fashionista. In this particular video, part of her “franglais series,” Alexa goes to visit yet another impossibly cool It-girl, Camille Charrière, at her perfectly decorated London home. Camille Charrière, who comes from a mixed French and English background, would switch from her proper English accent to flawless French during the video. I was enthralled by her effortless elegance and had an instant girl crush.
Watching this video, among many other videos, was part of my ongoing “research” (or rather, inspiration) for what was at this point a pretty serious plan for me: moving to France. Throwing somewhat of a wrench in this plan was that I had just accepted a cushy position with a prestigious company in California and I could not imagine giving everything up to move to France.
And yet, the dream persisted.
Before I had accepted this new position, I had even told my new manager (who was poaching me from the previous company) that I did not intend to stay in the U.S. and had plans to move to Europe.
"I am actually looking for work there and even interviewed with a company," I had shared with him honestly.
“Don’t do that yet. Work with us instead,” he said, telling me a brand-new position was now available that was perfectly tailored for me; I would be a frontrunner for the job. Between his persuasion and the very nice salary I was offered by this company, I could not refuse.
So the dream was temporarily shelved, but I had not given up entirely, and I had also developed a daily routine: I would start my mornings with French lessons alongside my coffee, repeating verb conjugations out loud until the caffeine hit me, then go on my morning jogs.
Occasionally, I would switch up this routine to watch videos that were somehow French-themed, either from influencers or travel Youtubers that lived in Paris. And so, on this particular Saturday, I watched as Alexa Chung spoke to Camille Charrière about how to dress like a French woman.
As the video started, it was clear Alexa admired Camille’s style and was trying to crack the secret code of why French women look so good. After Alexa got into a debate with Camille over whether the jeans from a vintage shop in her closet were actually Levi’s 501 (it appeared they had been altered), the two did agree that proper jeans should be uncomfortable and have no stretch. Not missing a beat, Camille imparted the wisdom she was raised with from her French mother:
“Camille, il faut souffrire pour être belle.”
You have to suffer to be beautiful.
Completely absorbed, I was taking mental notes: So this is how French women think and dress. I looked down at my own outfit, a basic workout tee and yoga pants that had maybe been washed one too many times and were starting to thin out. Perfectly fine for my morning jog, but obviously not suitable for France.
I perked up again when, a few minutes later, Alexa pointedly asks, “Do French women go to the gym? And if so, what are they wearing to the gym?”
“We don’t like to have this conversation,” Camille answers in a hushed tone, as if suddenly the French gendarmerie was about to swoop in and arrest them both for breaking the first rule of French Womanhood Club.
“Of course, French women go the gym, but they don’t talk about it,” Camille continues quietly with a wry smile.
“They don’t talk about it!” Alexa repeats with incredulity.
Damn, I thought to myself. I’m breaking all the rules with my yoga pants and my morning run. Engaging in such a public exercise clearly means I am not very française.
I can now tell you that not even one year after this video was released, actually living in Paris, I would find out this is absolute nonsense.
Not only do French women very much talk about going to the gym and enthusiastically share their exercise regimes, my French coworkers and French friends will go so far as to invite me to join them. Even my very French boss (a woman) considered having all of us in the office do a pilates or yoga session before our lunch break as “team-building” and constantly talked about her workouts with pride.
In all fairness to Camille, perhaps the culture had changed dramatically during Covid.
At various points during the pandemic in France, there were ultra-strict curfews in place, the most notorious of which forbade anyone from being outside of their home after 6pm unless you had a special attestation from your company (a document officially stamped saying you were outside to get to and from work) or another validated reason.
Among the few reasons permissible, to be outside on a run was allowed (within a certain kilometer perimeter from your home address). This led to an explosion of Parisians suddenly being avid runners, desperate to get out of their cramped apartments and get some air in the evening hours. For the same reason, there was suddenly a huge uptick in dog adoptions, as walking your dog was another legally allowed reason to be outside. And yes, there were police checking people’s papers and pulling over cars to verify that you had a legitimate reason to be on the streets.
It was really intense.
Since I had moved to France with only two suitcases (I still cannot believe I did this), I had extremely limited clothing when I arrived. I had packed the suitcases full of clothing intended to tide me over for four seasons, an abrupt change from the year-round mild California weather I was used to, and I tried to keep the wardrobe choices as workplace-ready as possible.
Since they took up too much room, this meant I packed only one or two pairs of jeans. And because I made the classic and also grave expat error of eating a pain au chocolat every single morning for the first month that I lived in Paris (pro tip: do not do this), until a French neighbor gently told me that the French do not, in fact, eat this for breakfast every day, I quickly got a little bit too heavy for those jeans. Soon, only my yoga pants were fitting me well.
Coupled with the easy breezy California culture that I hailed from, black yoga pants soon became my de facto uniform on the weekends; I would throw them on every time I ran to the Carrefour downstairs or for any outside activity at all, really. It became apparent to me very quickly that this was not a typical thing to wear; I would get some subtle stares and the occasional raised eyebrow.
Whatever, I thought to myself, it’s not like I’m some chic French woman anyway.
Perhaps as a streak of rebelliousness or perhaps to nostalgically hold on to a more comfortable daily uniform that was completely appropriate in the city I hailed from, I refused to stop wearing yoga pants. Until maybe a year or two ago, when my very French boyfriend very politely told me, “Baby, I love you, but you have to stop wearing the yoga pants.” He explained to me that it looks like going outside in your underwear to the French, it's a smidge vulgaire.
I finally acquiesced. At this point, I was wearing them near-daily and it was getting a little ridiculous, admittedly.
Women wearing yoga pants outside is by far the most telling sign they are Americans in Paris and it does look really out of place (sorry, Americans). The only exception is French women in yoga pants going to and from their workout sessions or yoga classes and no, they do not try to hide that they are working out like it's some shameful secret.
While I firmly believe women should be able to dress how they like, I do appreciate how in Paris, women just look really good, even if it’s for only picking up a couple of leeks at the grocery. They take care of their skin, they dab on a little lipstick, they always have a cute coat and honestly, they really have perfected the art of wearing jeans here.
Where French women do seem to give themselves a little bit of grace is with shoes (Paris cobblestones and heavy walking = well-worn and dirty sneakers and this is totally acceptable) and hair (the hard water here will absolutely destroy your hair, which will be another topic for another blog post entirely).
So, while I am not even close to the chicness of either Alexa Chung or Camille Charrière, and while I am also definitely not a born and raised French woman, I have learned to take care of myself in a way and with a level of self-appreciation I maybe never had before. I learned to embrace my flaws, inspired by how French women lean into their imperfections, completely unapologetic about how they look. And this is really very sexy.
I don’t have the perfect body or flawless skin (I mean, really, who does?), but I do now have some chic coats, an endless collection of scarves, and some proper jeans. I have decided a better way to express my individuality now is through unexpected colors or silhouettes in my clothing, or perhaps a stronger lipstick look (while keeping the rest of my face neutral). When I now leave the house, I will have made an effort with how I look and this has invigorated a sense of “I am worth it” that I am not sure I had before.
But I still go running very publicly along the Seine in yoga pants and I am not even sorry.
Pants to wear in Paris besides yoga pants:
- Slacks
- Jeans
- Literally anything else
