Lululemon Quotes

How do I explain that having the chance to take a breather midlife and evaluate everything is rarer than a double rainbow?

She practices yoga three times a week, tripping down the steps with her magic-carpet mat rolled beneath one arm, legs shrink-wrapped in Lululemon.

Also, don’t ask me how I know this because it’s embarrassing, but those leggings you like at Lululemon are on sale.

Endorphins were my cocaine and Lululemon pants were my rolled-up hundred-dollar bills.

Have a great day!” she sang as she left, flashing just the quickest middle finger as she walked past

You don’t look like a mom,” Isabelle observed. “What does a mom look like to you?” “I don’t know.” She smiled. “Cartier Love bracelet? Lululemon?” I laughed at that, her referencing the staples of private-school carpool lanes. There were so many things I wanted to teach her. That being a mother did not have to mean no longer being a woman. That she could continue to live outside the lines. That forty was not the end. That there was more joy to be had. That there was an Act II, an Act III, an Act IV if she wanted it … But at thirteen, I imagined, she did not care. I imagined she just wanted to feel safe. I could not blame her. We had already shaken her ground. “Am I a mom?” I asked her then, kissing her forehead. She nodded. “Well, then, this is what a mom looks like.

It’s so on sale, it’s practically paying you.

We hated the gym. We loved it. We escaped to it. We avoided it. We had complicated relationships with our bodies, while at the same time insisting that we loved them unconditionally. We were sure we had better, more important things to do than worry about them, but the slender yoga bodies of moms in Lululemon at school pickup taunted us. Their figures hinted at wheatgrass shots, tennis clubs, and vagina steaming treatments. We found them aspirational. So we sweated on the elliptical and lifted ten-pound weights, inching closer to the bodies we told ourselves we were too evolved to want.

The more I accomplish, the more I know I'm capable of accomplishing.

If I’d known you were coming, he said, I woulda worn my lululemons.

Each day I walked into the office and asked myself, “If I had to compete against lululemon, what would I do?” This allowed me to cannibalize what was working today for what would be best for the future.

Peace out, L.A.! Goodbye, wheatgrass and early-morning mountain hikes and hideous highway traffic and surfing culture and most of all people who either didn’t understand or didn’t like sarcasm. Hello, dirt and bagels and taxis and self-deprecation and edge. It was good to be home.

Another great example of the power of vulnerability -- this time in a corporation -- is the leadership approach taken by Lululemon's CEO, Christine Day. In a video interview with CNN Money, Day explained that she was once a very bright, smart executive who "majored in being right." Her transformation came when she realized that getting people to engage and take ownership wasn't about "the teling" but about letting them come into the idea in a purpose-led way, and that her job was creating the space for others to perform. She chracterized this change as the shift from "having the best idea or problem solving" to "being the best leader of people.

Like our other needs, meaning is an inherent expectation. Its denial has dire consequences. Far from a purely psychological need, our hormonees and nervous systems clock its presence or absence. As a medical study in 2020 found, the "presence [of] and search for meaning in life are important for health and well-being." Simply put, the more meaningful you find your life, the better your measures of mental and physical health are likely to be. It is itself a sign of the times that we even need such studies to confirm what our experience of life teaches. When do you feel happier, more fulfilled, more viscerally at ease: when you extend yourself to help and connect with others, or when you are focused on burnishing the importance of your little egoic self? We all know the answer, and yet somehow what we know doesn't always carry the day. Corporations are ingenious at exploiting people's needs without actually meeting them. Naomi Klein, in her book No Logo, made vividly clear how big business began in the 1980s to home in on people's natural desire to belong to something larger than themselves. Brand-aware companies such as Nike, Lululemon, and the Body Shop are marketing much more than products: they sell meaning, identification, and an almost religious sense of belonging through association with their brand. "That pressuposes a kind of emptiness and yearning in people," I suggested when I interviewed the prolific author and activist. "Yes," Klein replied. "They tap into a longing and a need for belonging, and they do it by exploiting the insight that just selling running shoes isn't enough. We humans want to be part of a transcendent project.

Bespoke vaginas are the new Birkin bags.

That’s all.

It was freezing and dark out, and Miriam’s house was homey and warm, and the idea of not being alone another night sounded rather nice.

I would never punish the daughter for the mother’s crimes.

This is why I like to handle things by myself. But when she offers her assistance, you really can’t control her.

And I haven’t even told you the best part. “He’s British.

Right now everything is exactly as it should be.

It’s Utah!” Emily cackled. “You watched Big Love, right?

Summer’s closet is clearly a magical portal. She entered it wearing Lululemon pants, wool socks, and one of my hockey hoodies. She exits it looking like a goddess. A slinky silver dress is plastered to her body, hugging every tantalizing curve. A slit goes up to her thigh, revealing one long, tanned leg, and her silver stilettos add about another four inches to her already tall frame. Her golden hair is up in an elegant twist held together by an ornate clip that sparkles under the light fixture overhead. It takes me a moment to realize that her hairclip is sparkling because it’s encrusted with diamonds. Summer notes my expression. Her makeup is subtle except for her bright red lips, which curve into a smile. It’s really fucking hot.

Hallsy is only thirty-nine, and already her face is pulled tight as a pair of Lululemon yoga pants across a plus-size girl’s rear. She’s never been married, which she’ll tell you she never wants to be even though she hangs all over every remotely fuckable guy after a single drink, while they gently untangle her Marshmallow Man arms from around their stiff necks. It’s no wonder the only ring on her finger is the Cartier Trinity, what with the way she’s ruined her face and the fact that she spends more time sunning on the beach than she should running on a treadmill. But it’s not just her sunspot-speckled chest and stocky, lazy frame. Hallsy is the type of person others describe as “whacky” and “kooky,” which is just the civilized way of saying she’s a nasty cunt. Hallsy she loves me.

In the end, it is impossible to have a great life unless it is a meaningful life. And it is very difficult to have a meaningful life without meaningful work. Perhaps, then, you might gain that rare tranquility that comes from knowing that you’ve had a hand in creating something of intrinsic excellence that makes a contribution. Indeed, you might even gain that deepest of all satisfactions: knowing that your short time here on this earth has been well spent, and that it mattered.” —Jim Collins, Good to Great: Why Some Companies Make the Leap…And Others Don’t

HER HUSBAND’S ALMOST HOME. He’ll catch her this time. There isn’t a scrap of curtain, not a blade of blind, in number 212—the rust-red townhome that once housed the newlywed Motts, until recently, until they un-wed. I never met either Mott, but occasionally I check in online: his LinkedIn profile, her Facebook page. Their wedding registry lives on at Macy’s. I could still buy them flatware. As I was saying: not even a window dressing. So number 212 gazes blankly across the street, ruddy and raw, and I gaze right back, watching the mistress of the manor lead her contractor into the guest bedroom. What is it about that house? It’s where love goes to die. She’s lovely, a genuine redhead, with grass-green eyes and an archipelago of tiny moles trailing across her back. Much prettier than her husband, a Dr. John Miller, psychotherapist—yes, he offers couples counseling—and one of 436,000 John Millers online. This particular specimen works near Gramercy Park and does not accept insurance. According to the deed of sale, he paid $3.6 million for his house. Business must be good. I know both more and less about the wife. Not much of a homemaker, clearly; the Millers moved in eight weeks ago, yet still those windows are bare, tsk-tsk. She practices yoga three times a week, tripping down the steps with her magic-carpet mat rolled beneath one arm, legs shrink-wrapped in Lululemon. And she must volunteer someplace—she leaves the house a little past eleven on Mondays and Fridays, around the time I get up, and returns between five and five thirty, just as I’m settling in for my nightly film. (This evening’s selection: The Man Who Knew Too Much, for the umpteenth time. I am the woman who viewed too much.) I’ve noticed she likes a drink in the afternoon, as do I. Does she also like a drink in the morning? As do I? But her age is a mystery, although she’s certainly younger than Dr. Miller, and younger than me (nimbler, too); her name I can only guess at. I think of her as Rita, because she looks like Hayworth in Gilda. “I’m not in the least interested”—love that line. I myself am very much interested. Not in her body—the pale ridge of her spine, her shoulder blades like stunted wings, the baby-blue bra clasping her breasts: whenever these loom within my lens, any of them, I look away—but in the life she leads. The lives. Two more than I’ve got.

Some toddlers may take a bite or two of the meal you’ve made so lovingly, but most will not finish it. You’ll then feel compelled to eat the rest of their fish sticks or cheese cubes. Try not to dwell on the fact that you’re eating trash. Don’t worry, these calories don’t count. Most of you will spend your days eating your toddler’s scraps like some kind of Lululemon-wearing vulture. The

There are many reasons for this, which we’ll explore throughout the book. But one is that it isn’t just men who misunderstand their female audiences. Women executives have been schooled in the same conventional wisdom of business that men have. And many find themselves going against their better instincts at work or refraining from putting forth their ideas because they don’t want to cast themselves in the soft pink light of femininity, in case it’s used against them. There is no doubt: the companies who invest in understanding their primary consumer are winning. In the pages ahead, you’ll learn how these companies are changing the rules, dominating their markets, and reinventing their categories. From upstarts such as method and lululemon athletica to titans like Procter & Gamble and MasterCard Worldwide, these mavericks

So what? Today is a new day.” Czar grinned. “And I need to go to Lululemon.” “See, now we’re on the same page. I’m hungry as hell.” Biggie rubbed his stomach. “What’s the name again? I wanna look at the menu.” “Nigga, it’s not a fucking restaurant with yo hungry ass. It’s a clothing store. I need to pick some shit up for LB.” “Man, can we stop and get something to eat? I’m hungry as hell.

(Even Lululemon had its own distinctive vernacular. It was printed all over their shopping bags, so customers would walk out of the store carrying mantras like, “There is little difference between addicts and fanatic athletes,” “Visualize your eventual demise,” and “Friends are more important than money”—all coined by their so-called “tribe” leader, Lululemon’s founder, Chip Wilson, an aging G.I. Joe type just like Greg Glassman whose acolytes were equally devout. Who knew fitness could inspire such religiosity?)

I’ll always be Rory Carter from Devil’s Dip. The Rory who wears her hair curly and lives in Lululemon and sneakers. Who can start a fire with a soda can and can identify over three hundred birds by their tweets alone.

But if you trust your friend Lululemon—” “Luguselwa,” Meg growled.

Lululemon is also a high-concept purveyor of a way of life. It’s a shrine of upscale sweat.

blond woman with bony shoulders and a uniform of Lululemon shouts excitedly,