Cold Plunge Standoff

"Hey babe! Hosting a little gathering Saturday—super chill, just 30ish folks and some mindful snacks!"

I stare at Angela's text like it just sneezed on my phone. Thirty people isn't a gathering. It's a viral event with guacamole.

I never fully re-entered the atmosphere after it. The Pause. The Great Global Timeout. That glorious, terrible stretch when pants were optional, solitude was patriotic, and nobody expected you to show up—especially not in person.

Some people bounced back like overcorrected economies. They went to brunch. Hugged strangers. Joined improv groups.

Me? I stayed where it was safe. Alone, masked, and mildly lemon-scented. I still carry hand sanitizer like Mother Teresa with holy water. My masks are color-coded by risk level. Red for planes. Yellow for grocery stores. Blue for mild-to-moderate friendship obligations. Black for Angela's gatherings.

My excuse library is extensive and meticulously categorized:

"I'm in a standoff with my cold plunge tub. It's been three days. If I leave the house, it wins. My podcast host life coach says this is how billionaires are made." (Wellness, unverifiable, trending)

"I promised my therapist I'd spend more time with my inner child. Turns out, she hates parties too." (Psychological, relatable, difficult to challenge)

"My chakras are having a closed-door meeting. They specifically requested no witnesses." (Spiritual, speaks Angela's language, surprisingly effective)

Last month, I missed a poetry reading because I claimed I was "alphabetizing my anxieties. Currently stuck between 'existential dread' and 'expired yogurt—but maybe it's still good?'" The week before that, "teaching my houseplants to respond to 1990s pop songs—we're currently working on Britney Spears."

This time I type: "I'm in a standoff with my cold plunge tub. It's been three days. If I leave the house, it wins. My podcast host life coach says this is how billionaires are made."

Angela's reply is immediate: "Cold plunging?? YOU?? Nope. You're coming. I even found a weekend foster for Cicero."

Cicero is her cat. One good eye, fur like a disgruntled philosophy professor's cardigan, and a vendetta against anyone who smells anxious. The fact that she re-homed him for the weekend means I've run out of rope.

I respond with the digital equivalent of a sigh: "Fine. What time?"

"7pm. Bring nothing but your authentic self."

Great. The one thing I left in 2020.

I arrive exactly seven minutes late—just enough to avoid being the first, not late enough to seem like I planned it. Social threading-the-needle.

The door's cracked open. The doormat says "Inhale Confidence, Exhale Doubt." I inhale dread and exhale... is that turmeric?

A handwritten sign requests "Bare feet, bare souls." I briefly consider faking a foot injury—"Oh no, my orthotic!"—but there's no tripping hazard. Just a cushiony mat and the smell of incense. Sandalwood. Ugh.

From inside, I hear what sounds like Vampire Weekend being culturally appropriated through Tibetan singing bowls. Of course Angela would have a playlist called "Mindful Indie Covers for Conscious Consumption."

Angela greets me in a neon teal headband that screams "I discovered Jane Fonda workout videos during lockdown and made them my entire personality." Her leggings are high-waisted and patterned with tiny affirmations too small to read but large enough to induce eyestrain. She's got on leg warmers—actual leg warmers—despite it being 75 degrees outside, and a tank top that says "Breathwork Enthusiast" in a font that can only be described as "coastal grandmother meets tech startup." She's glowing like she just returned from a forest where the trees host podcast panels.

"You made it!" she beams, hugging me with the full force of eucalyptus oil and unearned optimism. "You look amazing!"

I do not. I look like someone who spent twenty minutes deciding between bringing wine or a Lysol fogger. I brought both. One's in my purse. The other's for emergencies.

"You're just in time," she says, dragging me past what appears to be a man whispering affirmations to a houseplant. "We're in the middle of gentle mingling before the intention setting."

"Gentle mingling" sounds like something you'd need antibiotics for.

I notice Angela's living room has been transformed into what I can only describe as "pandemic personality reinvention shrine." Where there used to be IKEA furniture and wine stains, there are now meditation cushions and a wall of certifications: "Breathwork Practitioner (Online)," "Crystal Energy Attunement (Level 2)," "Pandemic-Proof Positivity Coach." A bookshelf displays titles like "Manifest Your Post-Isolation Glow" and "Digital Detox (As Seen On Instagram)."

Some guy in a hemp vest smiles like he's already forgiven me for something. Someone hands me a jar of what tastes like a juice cleanse left in a hot car. I nod politely and pretend to sip, the way you do when handed a baby or a wet crystal.

"Oh, that's cucumber-spirulina-lion's mane with a touch of ashwagandha," says a woman whose pandemic hobby was clearly downloading the entire Goop catalog directly into her personality. "It's basically liquid enlightenment."

It's basically liquid compost, but I smile and nod.

Angela leans in. "You can take your mask off, love. We're all testing negative vibes tonight."

A woman nearby is describing her "sound bath journey" with the enthusiasm usually reserved for people who've survived being lost at sea. "And then the gong just, like, penetrated my third chakra."

That's when I see him. A man huddled by the ficus, clutching a mason jar labeled "gut broth" and wearing—praise be—a KN95 mask. Our eyes meet across the room with the instant recognition of two people who'd rather be alphabetizing their disaster preparedness kits.

Then—Mrrrreeeooow. From the hallway.

Angela's face tightens. "Oh god," she breathes. "Cicero's back."

A crash from the kitchen. Everyone pretends not to notice, like it's impolite to acknowledge a cat's emotional journey.

"That's impossible," Angela whispers. "He's supposed to be with my sister in Silver Lake."

Another crash. Then silence, except for the speakers now oozing a slowed-down, reverb-heavy cover of The National's "Don't Swallow the Cap" that's been stripped of all its anxiety and irony—which seems to entirely miss the point of the song.

Angela claps twice, gently but with the authority of someone who once led a cacao ceremony in Baja. "Okay, loves! Time to form our Gratitude Spiral."

Panic blooms in my armpits. I drift toward the ficus, but she intercepts me like an airport therapy dog.

"Sit by Ashwin," she says, nudging me toward the masked man. His eyes are wide and resigned above his KN95.

"You trapped too?" I whisper as I sink onto a floor cushion.

"I was promised silent reflection and beet chips," he murmurs. "So far it's been forty minutes of people describing their relationships with their mothers' wombs."

Angela places a ceramic bowl in the center of our spiral. It's hand-painted with gold swirls, the word "Shed," and what I suspect is either Sanskrit or someone's name tag from Burning Man.

"This is our Burn Bowl," she says, holding it like it contains ancient secrets or fair-trade truffle oil. "Write down what no longer serves you. Fold it with gratitude. When you release it into the flame, let your body follow. Let your breath follow. Let everything go."

Handmade paper is passed around, pre-scented with sage and self-actualization. People begin scribbling. I write "This party."

Jasper rises. Mid-thirties. Man bun. Wearing a vest that may have been woven from ethical intentions. He approaches the bowl with the gravitas of someone accepting a lifetime achievement award in tantric breathwork.

He bows. To the bowl. To Angela. To the room. Then breathes in... deeply.

And on the exhale: Prrrrrrrbbbt.

Soft, but undeniable. Like a wind instrument that had feelings.

A moment of stunned silence.

Angela, unshaken, closes her eyes. "Release happens in many forms."

Ashwin's shoulders quake beside me. I cough into my elbow, unsuccessfully muffling what may or may not be a giggle-snort.

Jasper bows again and returns to his cushion, glowing with the peace of a man who has truly let go.

Then... it starts.

A low, uncertain gurgle from the woman two cushions over. She exhales through her nose like she's trying not to betray her intestines. Another guest groans and subtly shifts to one hip. It spreads like socialized digestion.

Somewhere near the snack table, a kombucha jar pops its cap.

Angela raises her arms, her leg warmers sliding down slightly. "This is your body communicating. Honor it."

"Is this a collective gut biome rebellion?" Ashwin whispers.

I nod slowly. "Is this a gratitude circle or prep for a colonoscopy?"

"Both," he whispers. "They call it 'holistic.'"

Angela stands, adjusts her headband importantly, and raises a finger adorned with at least seven rings, each one apparently representing a different chakra or multilevel marketing scheme she's joined during quarantine. "Let's use this beautiful collective release as a gateway to our sharing circle."

Angela rings her singing bowl. "Beautiful. Now let's share what we've released."

Someone releases fear of scarcity. Another lets go of capitalist validation. Someone else lets go of gluten, dairy, and "toxic thoughts about Tuesdays."

Then it's my turn.

Ashwin nudges me. I look around the circle. I reach for an excuse, any excuse. I come up empty.

"I've let go of pretending I'm okay with people breathing near me," I start, surprising myself with honesty. "I've let go of shaking hands with anyone who just wiped their nose. I've let go of kombucha—because it tastes like something your fridge should've thrown out for you. And I've let go of pants without elastic. Forever. Those are dead to me now."

There's a pause. And then—laughter. The kind that rolls in like a rogue wave, knocking over any remaining dignity.

Angela beams. "See? Vulnerability is magic. You're hilarious."

"I wasn't joking."

More laughter. Someone offers me another jar of gut broth. I pass it to Ashwin.

He nods with the solemnity of a man who's just witnessed a spiritual gastrointestinal event.

"Wanna fake a bathroom emergency?" he whispers.

"Only if we can tag-team the cat."

The woman beside us is now sobbing while describing her relationship with processed sugar. "It's just so... sweet to me when no one else is."

Right on cue: CRASH. A bookshelf teeters. A crystal singing bowl rolls across the floor with the melodic ring of checkbook spirituality.

Cicero appears in the doorway, tail puffed to three times its normal size, one good eye fixed on Angela like she owes him money.

Angela gasps. "I knew he'd find me. Our energies are cosmically aligned."

Cicero's fur suggests his energies are more "cosmically pissed off."

"He once traveled six miles to find me at a retreat," Angela whispers. "He hates when I socialize without him."

Cicero approaches the circle, sniffing each person with judgmental precision. When he reaches me, he pauses, sniffs my mask, then promptly sits on my paper intention.

"He's claiming you," Angela says, misty-eyed. "He only sits on the auras he trusts."

Ashwin and I lock eyes above our masks.

"Now?" he whispers.

"Now. My cold plunge tank just texted. It says if I don't return in the next fifteen minutes, it's changing the locks."

We bolt for the door, Cicero inexplicably racing alongside us like we're co-conspirators in a heist.

"Wait!" Angela calls after us. "We haven't harvested our collective wisdom yet!"

Outside, the night air is brisk and gloriously unscented. No sage, no intention mist. Just the smell of damp pavement and something faintly fried from the corner taco truck.

Ashwin and I stand on the sidewalk like two people who've just escaped a wellness hostage situation. He pulls out a protein bar. Offers half. I take it.

Cicero sits between us, licking his paw with the satisfaction of a successful saboteur.

"I thought about telling them I've developed an allergic reaction to motivational Instagram captions. One more 'live, laugh, love' and my skin might actually crawl off my body," I say.

"I was going to fake a call from my ice bath consultant. Apparently my 'cold tolerance metrics' are setting recovery industry records, and they needed an emergency reading."

We stand there, chewing in silence. Cicero purrs against my ankle.

I could say something clever. Or self-deprecating. Or politely excuse myself into the night.

Instead, I just breathe. Actual fresh air, not performative breathwork.

"I might go to the next one," I say, surprising myself.

Ashwin raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

"No," I admit. "But I might get coffee with you sometime. In masks. Six feet apart. Outdoors. During a low pollen count day."

He nods, deadpan. "It's a date. I'll bring my own sanitizer."

Cicero meows in apparent approval.

This, I think, is as social as I need to be. A reluctant human, a like-minded stranger, and a cat with boundary issues.

Angela texts: "Your energy is missed! We're about to start aura painting!"

I turn my phone face-down on the bench.

Some things are better left unreleased.