By Leila Molitor.

There is a very specific smell in a boutique fitness studio at 9:00 AM on a Saturday, and it’s not just the expensive eucalyptus spray. It’s the scent of pure, unadulterated regret being steamed out of twenty-somethings who think they can outrun a hangover if the music is loud enough. We’ve all been there. You woke up with your shoes still on and a tongue that feels like it’s been carpeted, but instead of doing the sane thing and staying in bed eating a bagel in the dark, you grabbed your leggings. You decided that the only way to atone for the sins of Friday night was to clip into a stationary bike and let a stranger lead you through a simulated hill climb in a room that is effectively a pressurized sweat box.

We tell ourselves this is "detoxing." It’s the great New York lie. We genuinely believe that if we sweat enough, we can physically push the alcohol out of our pores and emerge onto the sidewalk as a brand-new person. It’s a penance. We’re not there for the endorphins; we’re there because we feel like we deserve to suffer a little bit for that 1:00 AM decision to order another round. So we sit there in the dark, the bass vibrating in our skulls like a jackhammer, trying not to throw up on the handlebars while the instructor tells us to "find our intention." My intention is to not die before the second sprint, thanks.

The physical reality is a complete disaster. You’re already dehydrated, so you drink a liter of room-temperature water in ten minutes, which just makes your stomach feel like a washing machine on the heavy cycle. Your heart rate is hitting levels that would concern a cardiologist because your blood is basically just diluted tequila at this point. By the time the lights come up and the "inspirational" cool-down track starts playing, you don’t feel enlightened. You feel like a ghost that’s been put through a trash compactor. You’ve replaced a headache with a full-body ache and a weird sense of lightheadedness that makes the walk to the subway feel like navigating a minefield.

But the worst part is the smugness that follows. You walk out of that studio with your damp hair and your $12 post-class smoothie, and you feel like you’ve cheated the system. You’ve "reset." You’ve earned the right to go grab a heavy brunch and do it all over again. We ignore the fact that our bodies are screaming for actual rest and electrolytes because the narrative of the "active New Yorker" requires us to be productive even when we’re falling apart.

It’s a cycle of self-inflicted punishment that we call a lifestyle. We’re so terrified of being still that we’d rather vibrate with exhaustion in a dark room than admit we overdid it. It’s dysfunctional, it’s expensive, and it’s probably destroying our adrenal glands, but at least we closed our rings before noon.

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