It's 10 a.m. Saturday morning. Painfully hung-over, you reek of tequila shots and stale cigarettes. But you vowed to start working out, dammit, so you roll out of bed, slide into your gym clothes, and power through the drive to Sanctuary 7. In the spin room, mirrors surround you, much to your chagrin. Thankfully, dim lighting means no one can see you're still wearing last night's makeup. Instructor Shawn sits atop a platform, surveying the room. There's nowhere to hide. As the class kicks off, "I'm Sexy and I Know It" reverberates through your haggard frame. You're feeling anything but sexy. He spots your half-assed sprints and cracks a goofy joke at your expense. Everyone laughs, including you. Cheeks burning, you step it up. Sprint, jump, climb, repeat. And before you know it, you're burning off that 3 a.m. Taco Bell shame. Fifty minutes later, "last song" are the two sweetest words you've ever heard. But strangely — with your brow soaked in alcohol-infused sweat, your quads burning, and your tongue desperately dehydrated — you're almost sad to see class end. The endorphins have kicked in, and life is feeling a little rosier. Hangover banished, you've earned yourself a bloody mary — or two.