The first time I wore an exercise jumpsuit in public, I felt like a giant toddler who had accidentally wandered out of a nursery and into a high-end coffee shop. I stood there, waiting for my oat milk latte, convinced everyone was looking at my lack of a waistband and thinking, Is she about to go change a tire or do a cartwheel?
But then I sat down. And for the first time in my adult life, my leggings didn’t roll down under my stomach. Nothing pinched. I wasn’t adjusting a drawstring. I was just… contained. It was a revelation. I’ve spent the last 14 months obsessed with finding the best exercise jumpsuit, and I have some very strong, probably irrational thoughts about which ones are actually worth the triple-digit price tags.
The day my dignity stayed in a Pilates studio
I was at this boutique Pilates place on 4th Street—the kind with the reformers that look like medieval torture devices—wearing a cheap Amazon jumpsuit I’d bought on a whim. About twenty minutes into the session, we started doing those leg circles where your feet are in the straps. I felt a weird draft. What I mean is—actually, let me put it differently. The seam in the crotch had decided to give up the ghost entirely.
I spent the remaining forty minutes of that class trying to keep my legs glued together while the instructor kept yelling at me to “expand my range of motion.” I couldn’t exactly tell her that my range of motion was currently exposing my soul to the entire room. I threw that jumpsuit in the trash can in the locker room and walked out in my trench coat, shivering. That was the moment I realized that if you’re going to wear a single piece of fabric to do high-intensity movement, you cannot go cheap. You just can’t.
The bathroom logistics are a nightmare and I don’t care
Everyone asks the same thing: “But how do you pee?” Look, it sucks. You have to get basically naked in a public stall. If the floor is sticky, you’re performing a high-stakes Cirque du Soleil maneuver to keep your sleeves from touching the tile. It’s a struggle. But I’d rather deal with ninety seconds of vulnerability in a bathroom than sixty minutes of tugging at my waistband during a run.
I might be wrong about this, but I think the “bathroom problem” is actually a secret filter. It keeps the casuals away. Only the truly dedicated jumpsuit enthusiasts are willing to sit on a cold toilet seat in their sports bra just to avoid a muffin top. It’s a trade-off I make every single Tuesday morning before my 6 AM yoga session.
The compression in a good jumpsuit should feel like a very firm, slightly judgmental hug from an aunt you don’t really like, but who you know has your best interests at heart.
That’s my one metaphor for the day. Take it or leave it.
The only three worth your money
I’ve tested six different brands over the last year, and I’ve tracked the wear-and-tear like a crazy person. I even measured the leg openings with a ruler after 20 washes. Here is the actual breakdown:
- Lululemon Align Bodysuit: I used to think Lululemon was just a cult for suburban moms. I was completely wrong. The Nulu fabric is the only thing that doesn’t make me feel like a sausage in a casing. I’ve worn mine for 52 workouts now. The inner thigh pilling is minimal—exactly 0.4mm of fuzz according to my fabric shaver. It’s expensive, but it stays put.
- Girlfriend Collective Compressive Unitard: This one is made from recycled water bottles. When you first put it on, it feels like cardboard. You’ll think you bought the wrong size. You didn’t. Give it three washes. It molds to you. I wore this for a 10k in the rain and didn’t get a single ounce of chafe.
- Old Navy PowerSoft: This is the budget pick. It’s not as good as the others, but for $40, it’s fine for lifting weights. Just don’t do yoga in it; the neckline plunges way further than you think it will when you’re in downward dog.
Never again with the cheap stuff. Total waste.
Why I’m done with FP Movement
I know people will disagree with me on this because their stuff looks great on Instagram, but I actively tell my friends to avoid the Free People Movement jumpsuits. I bought the “Righteous Run” one because the back detail was stunning.
It is the most useless piece of clothing I own. The straps are so thin they felt like they were trying to cheese-wire my shoulders off. I wore it for one 3-mile run in July and by the end, the fabric had stretched out so much that the crotch was sagging halfway to my knees. I looked like I was wearing a loaded diaper. I refuse to recommend them even though everyone loves the aesthetic. It’s fashion, not function, and I’m too old to choose aesthetics over the ability to breathe.
The 11-month wear-and-tear data
I’m a bit of a nerd about this, so I kept a log. I tested the elasticity of the leg openings on the Lululemon vs. the Girlfriend Collective. After 11 months of weekly use, the Lululemon leg opening expanded by 3mm. The Girlfriend Collective expanded by 7mm.
Does that matter? Maybe not to you. But if you have thin thighs like I do, that 7mm means the shorts start riding up and turning into a swimsuit. There is nothing more annoying than having to reach down and pull your shorts out of your business every three minutes while you’re trying to hit a PR on the squat rack.
I’ve spent way too much time thinking about this. My husband thinks I’m insane. My coworkers probably wonder why I own five versions of the same outfit. But honestly? I’m never going back to separate leggings and tops.
If you’re on the fence, just buy the Lululemon one and call it a day. It’s boring, it’s basic, and it works. I still haven’t figured out how to pee in a port-a-potty while wearing one of these without the sleeves touching the floor, though. If you have the answer to that, please, for the love of god, tell me.