I’m Not a Wellness Guru — and I’m Fine With That

At some point, someone decided that breakfast wasn’t complete without seeds from an obscure plant that sounds like a sneeze. Chia. I gave it a shot. Made the pudding. Ate it cold. It felt like eating textured regret. Life is too short to pretend I like jelly with no flavor. I went back to my toast — buttered, sinful, perfect.

They say a cold plunge wakes up your senses. You know what else wakes me up? My neighbor starting his lawn mower at 6 a.m. I don’t need icy torture to feel vital. A warm shower, a soft robe, and a playlist with jazz from the '60s — that’s my version of wellness. No screaming required.

Yes, I walk. No, I don’t count steps. I walk to watch the world go by. To hear what the lady at the flower stall is gossiping about. To see if that grumpy cat is still sitting on the fence like he owns it. These little walks are my daily soap opera. Health benefits? Bonus.

I tried one once. A green drink that claimed to have kale, cucumber, matcha, and “detox energy.” It tasted like garden hose and disappointment. Give me a bowl of soup and a piece of rye bread. Food shouldn’t be a punishment. I’ve lived long enough to say this with confidence: pleasure is also a nutrient.

There’s a difference. I don’t need gadgets on my wrist to tell me if I’m alive. I breathe, I stretch, I laugh. I sit in silence. I make my bed. I call my sister. That’s my wellness routine. Not extreme. Not Instagrammable. But absolutely real.