The music and the lights and post-workout drinks all sound like perfect fodder for Instagram. But do we really need all the flash and sparkle to really get a good sweat? Are we so bored working out that we need booze and strobe lights in order to survive a 50-minute class?

“I recently went to an event at NOVA Fitness in New York, and after the 30-minute EMS sweat sesh, there was a whole bar waiting with cocktails, champagne, and CBD stir-in powders,” says Horwitz. “I am not much of a drinker anymore, but I will say, it makes you want to stick around and be social.”

When you think about it as a social event, spending $40 on a class seems significantly cheaper than a night out with friends. (Though capping off your dehydrating workout with alcohol sort of defeats the point of the workout.) For Horwitz, the gym has become a much more social experience—maybe even a place to meet someone. “I feel a social connection in these classes,” she says. “Because of dimly lit rooms with strobe lights, it elevates people’s endorphins and makes them feel sexy,” she says. “So why not talk to someone? Romantic or friendly.”

Personally, I’m into the club vibes as long as I can temper down the aspects that are a bit overwhelming for me (hence the earplugs), and skip the cocktail. At their core, these workout classes all offer things I love: intensity, fun black lights, and a challenging workout.

At my favorite studio in San Francisco, Rumble Boxing, my trainer—who I can’t see unless I lurch out from behind a weight-bearing pillar—splits his time between demonstrating punch sequences in the dark and manning the DJ turntables. On the screens that line the wall above him, his Instagram handle pierces through the darkness embellished by orange flames; something you might see on the side of a motorcycle. In his hand is a green laser, which doesn’t seem to serve any real purpose other than that it looks cool. And while I’m fully aware that half of my senses have been obliterated by the ambiance and subwoofers, I am, without a doubt, punching this tear-shaped bag harder than I’ve ever punched. My chin is down, my eyes are up, and my form is phenomenal—from what I can see in the near pitch black, at least. I can feel the roar of everyone in the room when the beat drops at the exact time our new punching sequence cues up. It’s all choreographed beautifully.

When this class ends and I unfurl the ear plugs from my ears and readjust my sight to the real world, I’ll complain a bit to those who’ll listen about the spectacle we just endured, and the impracticality of training in darkness, but you better believe I’ll be signing up for next week’s class too.

As long as no one walks in with sparklers in Champagne bottles, I’m a lifer.

Rebecca Brown is a writer in San Francisco covering fashion and wellness. Follow her on Instagram at @Rebecca_NYC_SF.

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