Kat (former Lululemon employee)

It is such an amazing story.

It's very unique.

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Now, I want to zoom out for a second and talk a little more generally about fitness and its role in our lives.

Specifically, the kinds of boutique fitness classes and luxury gyms that Lululemon outfits you for.

The ones that got wildly popular in the 2010s, like SoulCycle, CrossFit and Equinox.

These expensive, cultish workouts that aren't just a way to move your body, but a lifestyle choice, a brand that can come to define your identity.

I don't think it's a coincidence that Americans' move away from organized religion has coincided with the rise of these sorts of identitarian fitness regimes.

And there is something religious about them, I think.

The dimly lit candles at SoulCycle, the arduous penance of CrossFit lifting, the high ceilings and zigzag atriums of Equinox, this modernist architecture built to inspire awe and make you feel small, like you're in a cathedral.

And Lululemon stores, they're one of these sacred spaces.

You've probably been in one, or at the very least, walked by one.

They look beautiful.

Spotlit tables, felt mannequins dressed in their famous stretchy yoga pants, neat little cubby holes showcasing rolled up yoga mats just ready for the taking.

It's high end and deeply aspirational.

A place to buy clothes that promise to make you a better person.

This Lululemon store in Bethesda was no different.

Behind the counter were red shopping bags with sayings on them like modern-day commandments.