There’s something about the peeling off of drenched workout clothes that brings with it a satisfaction hard to describe.
It’s basically the only tangible proof that you, in fact, just worked out in either a strenuous fashion or a gym with no temperature regulation.
You’re not yet sore so you don’t feel bad. You’re still riding high on endorphins or dopamine or whatever the fuck it is that keeps you from not jumping into oncoming traffic and you’re about to hop into the shower and get on with your life.
But before you do, you slide that shirt off and marvel at how hard you—yes, you!—were able to work that this shirt has basically been reduced to a thick puddle. Good for me, you think, I should be some sort of an Olympian the way this shirt is so fully drenched. Did I go swimming in my clothes and not tell anyone? I am impressive.
And on an obvious note, there’s the simple fact that you get to take off what is otherwise disgusting and uncomfortable clothing in favor of warm, normal clothes.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling? : The start of every single workout, ever.