If you think some Violets' street attire is eccentric (shut up! we're individuals, dammit), you should check out their treadmill translations. Actually, you can't without a membership, which you shouldn't buy if ogling Mystic-tanned tri-delts is your m.o. We're not knocking the religiously restricted; hoofing it in floor-length skirts and headscarves is pretty impressive, if dangerous --to the gentleman whose yarmulke hit us in the eye yesterday: more hairclips are in order!!!. We're less understanding of the flannel boxer flyers. Just because we weren't invited to Sara's bat mitzvah doesn't mean you have to rub it in our faces. At least the Converse Crew is making their future podiatrists very happy. Also happy is Dov Charney; his spandex has a recurring role, both on its multi-hued own, and, more puzzlingly but just as frequently, under basketball shorts. Usually the latter ensemble is topped with sleeveless Under Armor and matching armbands --the better to check out those Creatine-puffed 'ceps. The Muscle Milk is optional; the swagger and diamond earring are not. Do we hear the chime of (zebra-handled, Swarovski-encrusted) wedding bells?