Not on track?

I was at the supermarket yesterday, doing my monthly procurement of groceries and pushing along a trolley so impossibly loaded that surely I should have ended the day with Schwarzenegger biceps. Unfortunately, the batwings had other plans and stayed intact, one day of supermarket trolley pushing does not make up for 29 days of using primarily the thumb and fingers. For typing. For typing.
As I pushed my trolley down the aisles, yes, wearing my wearing comfortable but impractical for laden trolley down aisle pushing wedgeheels, I noticed something. I blinked my eyes and looked again. I turned around and looked in all directions, in a panic. The women in the supermarket, all perfectly normal specimens of womanhood, had something in common, which I didn’t share with them. They were all in trackpants and teeshirts. Fitted lycra infused tshirts, showing off tyres that would give the Michelin man a right complex and send him running off to the dessert counter, sobbing into his fondant, or loose tshirts camouflaging all such progenitors of contagious pink eye. Track pants which had seen days of yore when the lycra hadn’t shuddered and given up the ghost after umpteen spin cycles. And sneakers. The sneakers made sense to me. The tshirts also I could live with. But the track pants I didn’t get.
Or maybe, this again, is just me having emerged from my Rip Van Winkle like state of existence and popped into the current world scenario not knowing that gym wear is perfectly acceptable wear even when one is not exercising. Is it? Am I the only fossil around who thinks it is the sartorial equivalent of coming out in public wearing your nightdress? Without even the apology of that hastily thrown dupatta across the front to retain some modicum of modesty?
Would I wear track pants and a tshirt in public? If I was walking for exercise perhaps I would. I have been guilty of wearing that to drop the brat off at playschool which was two gates down our road. I’ve worn track pants and tees when I’ve walked round the building complex in my daily constitutional. That’s about it. Beyond which I wouldn’t dare be caught in public in them. And if this, tshirts and tracks, are the new official uniform of coolth, I’m so sitting on the side of the fence with them uncool ones. In my mommy jeans. And my kurti. Or whatever other camouflage wear I choose to don, to cover them multiple Michelin man inspired tyres.