It doesn’t matter what it is. Pottery. Junk journaling. Fountain pens. Houseplants. Watercolour. Sourdough. Bonsai. Mechanical keyboards. Japanese denim. Birdwatching. Pickleball.

Underneath it is the same person making the same terrible decisions.

And it always starts with:

“I’m just going to try it.”

The biggest lie adults tell themselves. Not because you’re lying. Because you genuinely believe it.

A few days later, or at midnight after two hours of drunk-pinning tiny homes and chicken coops you’ll never build, you find yourself buying the beginner version of your new obsession because you’re “not ready to invest.”

A sentence that has never once prevented anyone from eventually investing.

You discover there’s an entire YouTube civilization built around your new hobby. One creator uploads a new video every Thursday from the same room they’ve been filming in since 2019.

Their lighting has improved dramatically.

Their opinion is now law.

You join Reddit.

You think it’ll be inspiring.

Instead you discover 300 strangers gently explaining that every purchase you’ve made so far was a mistake.

Someone recommends the thing you almost bought.

The replies unanimously agree it’s unusable.

You close the app.

You reopen the app three minutes later.

You accidentally learn a completely unnecessary vocabulary.

Suddenly you’re saying things like:

“It’s actually stoneware.”
“Japanese fine.”
“Cold fermentation.”
“Self-watering.”
“Thock.”

A month ago you would have rolled your eyes.

Now you’re correcting your neighbour.

It gets worse.

You start quietly judging other people’s setups. Their plant shelf. Their knife block. Their espresso machine. Their cast iron pan. Their yarn stash.

You don’t say anything out loud.

You just think:

“Interesting.”

Weeks go by. Someone asks how the hobby’s going.

You answer for twelve uninterrupted minutes.

You watch them leave the conversation halfway through.

You finish anyway.

Around week eight, you watch a 43-minute comparison video for a product you’ve already bought.

You’re not deciding anymore.
You’re seeking emotional closure.

By week ten, you’re trying to recruit a friend.

“Honestly, just borrow mine.”
“You don’t need much to get started.”
You are no longer trying the hobby. You are now representing it.
You didn’t pick up a hobby.
You joined a denomination.
The rituals are different.
The obsession is exactly the same.

The Purchase

The pen cost $370 CAD. I also bought two notebooks I’m not emotionally prepared to write in, an ink set for a calligraphy practice I have never once practiced, and a leather pen case with a six-week wait time that I found *charming* rather than insane, which tells you exactly what the pen had already done to me.

I had been in the shop for eleven minutes. I had been in Japan for two days. I had seventeen pens at home, including a Sephora promotional ballpoint I cannot explain and a Marriott hotel pen I definitely stole and three Bics in various states of caplessness. Not one of them had ever made me feel anything. Not one of them had ever implied, even briefly, that I might be a person of intention.

This pen implied it immediately. Within fifteen minutes I was mentally rearranging my life around a future version of myself who journaled.

What I actually bought was temporary access to a different personality. The pen was just the delivery mechanism.

The Pattern

I know this because I have done this before. Many, many times. I own a $200 Japanese chef’s knife that was going to make me someone who cooks. It lives wrapped in a cloth because knives this good need to rest. I have used it four times. Twice for cheese.

I own a linen jumpsuit described on the brand website as “honest,” which is not a fabric property but I bought it anyway and wore it once to a gallery opening where I spent the entire evening convinced I should start a Gyotaku practice, and then went home and ate crackers over the sink, and the jumpsuit has lived on a hook ever since, costing approximately $240 per wear.

I own the $85 French face oil that is, according to the internet, the reason Parisian women don’t age. Mostly what I’ve gotten from it is oily cheeks and a false sense of sophistication that lasts until I check my screen time.

I understand, intellectually, that objects cannot restructure a personality. I understand this the way I understand that astrology is not real — completely, and without it changing my behaviour in any way.

Here is what the Pilot Custom 742 fountain pen actually does: it writes. Genuinely beautifully. I filled it with a Sailor ink called Rikyu-cha, which is a grey-green I can only describe as “the colour of a decision you’re at peace with,” and something shifted. Not dramatically. I didn’t quit my job or start a junk journal. I wrote down what I had for breakfast. I wrote the word “intentionality” in the margins of a meeting agenda and then felt so disgusted with myself I crossed it out. I watched a forty-minute YouTube video about nib grinding, which is a thing people do, which means I am now a person who knows what nib grinding is, which is not who I expected to be at this stage of my life but here we are.

The Theory

Nobody has ever looked at a Le Creuset and thought, “Finally, a way to heat liquid.” That’s not what’s happening at the Le Creuset outlet and everyone standing in that parking lot on a Saturday morning knows it. What they’re buying is the version of themselves who makes soup intentionally, on a Sunday, while wearing something that billows, with a podcast on about the food of a region they’re definitely going to visit. This is an extremely efficient form of hope. Cheaper than therapy. More fun than actual change.

The object is real.

The better self is optional.

The Damage

And yet every single one of us keeps buying the object. The pen industry understands this better than most. Which is impressive, considering their primary product is a stick full of ink. A Bic writes. A $300 Pelikan M800 writes, but it also whispers *you are not the kind of person who would use a Bic* every single time you uncap it, and that whisper, it turns out, is what we were paying for all along. Naturally, I doubled down. Total additional spend since the pen: not something I’m going to put in writing, in any ink, in any notebook. It has its own budget line labelled “stationery” but spiritually it is labelled “ongoing personality construction, non-negotiable.”

A **Hobonichi Techo planner**, because a person with a fountain pen needs a system. The paper is called Tomoe River. It is thin enough to be translucent. The fountain pen community treats it with a reverence most people reserve for relationships or their mother’s feelings.

A **Traveler’s Notebook in camel leather**, because the Hobonichi is for planning and you need something for *observations*. The company describes their products as “a tool for those who value the journey.” This sentence should be embarrassing. It isn’t. That’s the whole problem.

A **ceramic pen rest shaped like a small wave** from an Etsy seller in Portland who describes herself as a “functional ceramicist and slow-living advocate.” It was $38. My pen rests on it beautifully. I have described this setup to at least two people who did not ask.

**Kyukyodo incense**, because the shop has been operating in Kyoto since 1663 and I thought: I want to smell like something with staying power.

Maybe that’s the real product.

Not the pen.

Not the notebook.

Not the incense.

The brief, intoxicating belief that this time, this purchase is going to be the one that finally gets your life together.

It won’t.

But it might get you through a Tuesday.

And honestly, that’s more than most self-help books have managed.

Subscribe for more attempts to purchase a better version of myself.

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What I got was:

• light strength training

• moderate cardio

• unexpected emotional activation

• a man telling me I’m doing a good job like my nervous system can handle that

The Phrases (And Their Immediate Psychological Impact)

“I’m proud of you.”

Cool. Now try saying that without disappearing for 9 years.

“You’re doing amazing.”

Bold of you to say when you haven’t ghosted me once.

“I’ve got you.”

Emotionally? Financially? Or just under this barbell for 12–15 reps?

“You’re stronger than you think.”

Which is wild, because he thought I was too much for having feelings.

“Don’t quit on yourself.”

That’s rich coming from someone who charges by the hour. Just like my ex.

“Trust yourself.”

Can’t. I once fell for a man who said “u up?” and meant it platonically.

“Take a breath.”

I would if I hadn’t been holding it since 1999 waiting for validation.

“You’re not who you were when you started.”

Therapy also said this, but you say it while I’m sweating and vulnerable so it hits harder.

“This is a safe space.”

Say that again, but closer.

“I see you.”

Sir. Please. I am one compliment away from imprinting on you permanently.

“You’re not alone.”

Insert distant echo of father closing the garage door forever.

“I know it’s hard.”

Yeah well so was being the family’s emotional support golden retriever.

“Let me help you.”

Jesus Christ are we dating now or..??

“You showed up.”

Okay but are you gonna leave again when I get too “clingy”?

Final Assessment

I came here to work out.

I left:

• stronger

• slightly destabilized

• emotionally overinvested in a man with a stopwatch

Closing Note

Will I return?

Yes.

Will I confuse encouragement with intimacy again?

Immediately.

Will I be thinking about one “good job” comment for the next 72 hours? Also yes.

Dear Nutmeg,

I feel kind of embarrassed to say that I watch BritBox incessantly, and I only understand 46% of the dialogue. The accents have forced me to get my son to select English Subtitles on my TV. Now, I have a new problem: eye fatigue from reading all the words while keeping up with the images.

No matter where “my shows” are set, there’s always a very complicated murder investigation. A vaguely familiar soul has washed up on the windswept shores of Ireland, or Shetland, or some other land, and obviously, a “who did this” ensues.

The basic hamlet for any BritBox series, is a monochromatic collection of stone houses on craggy cliffs, thankfully near a warm and inviting pub. It usually has a population the same as Piapot, Saskatchewan - which is currently 40 and unfortunately, doesn’t have a pub.

50% of the episode’s townsfolk know nothing about the dead lad, and the other half are not saying a thing as they are oddly connected to the international smuggling ring involved in the murder.

PS: the constabulary chasing down suspects through winding brick walled landscapes, seaside amusement parks, and church graveyards, are not armed, wearing cartoon-like black and yellow vests atop ill-fitting pants, and driving small 2-door Toyota Tercels. They find it hard to apprehend the young thugs selling drugs and corrupting the sweet lasses from the county because they have sweet lasses at home doing drugs.

I don’t know…maybe I should switch to Netflix…which I pay for but never watch….what do you think, Nutmeg?

Please help me,

Fake Brit Imminent in Victoria, BC

Dear FBI,

I WISH my biggest problem was deciding which crime show to binge on which streaming service. Alas, I do not have the dexterity required to operate a remote control and must watch whatever my skin mom has chosen which forces my tiny cat brain to try to comprehend why Carson Daly is still employed. Of course my preference is when she watches those survival reality shows where the contestants must “resort” to eating bugs. I would KILL to have access to the exotic bug buffet in the Tasmanian wilderness! Sadly, my involuntary viewing diet is more akin to my actual diet – a steady stream of brown crunchy things for breakfast, lunch and dinner with the odd treat of an injured moth that has stumbled upon its untimely demise on my catio.

I digress. Regarding your specific viewing woes, FBI, I would be grateful that your programs of choice force you to exercise your eyes and brain a little more than the average streaming slop would as you decipher worldly accents and have to read while keeping up with drab British scenery and storylines.

Parting swat: Be grateful for what you have… in this case, opposable thumbs.

Sincerely,

Nutmeg

Have a question for Nutmeg? She cannot read, but that has never stopped her from judging. Her people accept submissions at asknutmeg@gmail.com

New here? Meet Nutmeg

I’ve driven 45 minutes for a wicker ottoman I didn’t want. I’ve pretended I was “on the way” while still eating chips on the couch. I once bartered with banana bread because I had no cash. I don’t remember who I was before Marketplace, only that I was better.

Some Observations:

• “Still available?” is less a question, more a cry for help

• You must act fast or lose the opportunity to ruin your evening

• The pickup window is always “ASAP or never”

• Every seller says “firm price” but emotionally they are not

• I once asked “do you take e-transfer?” and they ghosted like we dated

“Is This Available?”
(What You Say vs. What You Mean)

“Is this available?” is not a message. It is a ritual. A knock on the door of someone’s life.

Here are the responses I have considered sending:

The Polite Citizen
“Yes! Still available 😊”
But actually: You have just invited chaos.

The Weary Veteran
“Yes, are you interested in picking up?”
But actually: You have been here before. You are tired.

The Passive-Aggressive Teacher
“Yes, it’s available. Let me know if you’d like to move forward.”
But actually: You are trying to raise them.

The Optimist (Delusional)
“Yes! When works for you?”
But actually:You will never hear from them again.

The Chaotic Honest
“Yes, but I will need you to emotionally commit first.”
But actually: Too real. Not advised.

The Seller Who Has Snapped
“Yes. Please respond if you message.”
But actually: They are on their 14th ghosting of the day.

Marketplace fact: Half the people who ask “is this available?” do not want the item. They want the option of wanting it.

Image courtesy of: 1015 The Hawk Announcers

Marketplace Responses I Have Sent With My Whole Chest

(Ranked from “normal human” to “HR would like a word”)

The Neutral Professional (lie)

“Hi! I can pick up today or tomorrow. Let me know what works best 🙂”
Translation: I will cancel plans. I will rearrange my life. Please choose me.

The Cool Girlfriend

“No rush! Just checking 😊”
You are lying to both of you.

The Soft Ultimatum

“I’m available this evening if that helps!”
This is pressure. You know it. They know it.

The Car Salesman Pivot

“Happy to e-transfer now if you want to hold it.”
You have never been burned enough to learn.

The Emotional Blackmail

“I can come ASAP.... I’ve been looking for one of these forever.”
Oversharing. Illegal in 12 states and 4 provinces.

The Final Girl

“All good if not --just let me know either way.”
You are begging them to acknowledge your existence.

Image Courtesy of: 31 Poor, Poor People Who Tried To Sell Something Online And Ended Up Talking To The Worst People Ever

Think Like a Car Salesman (But Hotter)

Marketplace is not about money. It’s about creating momentum before the other person remembers they hate people.

Tactic 1: Create Urgency (even when none exists)

• “I’m nearby today”

• “I can grab it on my way home”

• “I’m already out”

You are absolutely on your couch.

Tactic 2: Reduce Their Cognitive Load

• Never ask open-ended questions.

  • Instead of “When works?” say:

  • “I can do 6:30 or 7:15 — which is easier?”

You are the project manager now.

Tactic 3: Mirror Their Energy (Psychological Warfare)

• If they write “yes”, you reply “Perfect.”

• If they write a paragraph, you respond with one clean sentence.

DO NOT out-paragraph the seller.
You will lose respect instantly.

Tactic 4: Assume the Sale

• “Great, I’ll plan for 7 unless I hear otherwise.”

This is confidence.
This is also delusion.

Both work.

Image Courtesy of: Buzzfeed

Hold Requests
(A Study in False Promises)

What they say: “Can you hold this for me?”
What they mean: This is never a request.
It is a test of your boundaries and your self-respect.

What they say: “I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”
What they mean: “I am exploring who I am as a person.”

Acceptable responses:

• “I can hold it with a deposit.”

• “I can hold it until this evening.”

• “First come, first served.”

What never works:

• Holding it “just in case”

• Holding it “until payday”

• Holding it because they “promise”

They are lying to you.

They are lying to themselves.

You are allowed to sell the item and feel nothing.

Image Courtesy of: u/BusyProfit / Via reddit.com

The Add-On Hustle
(How to Get Extra Stuff Without Asking Like a Gremlin)

Never ask:
“Does it come with anything else?”

You say:

• “Does it include the cushion?”

• “Is the bulb still inside?”

• “Are the brackets attached?”

• “Any chance you’re also selling the ___ in the photo?”

You are not upselling. You are discovering value you deserve.

Advanced move: “I’m mainly after the mirror, but if you’re open to bundling the side table I’d take both.”

Congratulations, you have now entered your flea market grandpa era.

Image Courtesy of: u/BusyProfit / Via reddit.com

Pending, But At What Cost?
“Pending” is not a status.
It is a mood. A threat. A suggestion.

A listing marked Pending means one of three things:

1. Someone said “on my way” and then laid down.

2. The seller is emotionally invested in a stranger who will inevitably disappoint them.

3. Two people are fighting over the item and you are not one of them (yet).

Sometimes you message anyway.
Sometimes it works.
Sometimes the seller responds like you’ve interrupted a family meeting.

Acceptable Pending messages:

• “If it falls through, happy to pick up today.”

• “I can be a backup if needed.”

• “Ready whenever.”

Unacceptable energy:

• Arguing with fate.

• Asking for updates.

• Taking it personally.

Pending is not a promise.
It is a warning sign.

Image Courtesy of: Arts and Crackers

Coordinated Negotiation
(We Can Tell)

Occasionally, two different people (usually a couple) message you about the same item.

Different names.
Different profiles.
Same couch.

They pretend not to know each other. They pretend this is organic.

You’ll get:

• Sudden traction on something you’ve had listed since before you were born

• Offers within $5 and 5 minutes of one another

• That gut feeling that says cahoots and a threesome you did not consent to

What they are doing:

• Comparing notes in real time

• Attempting psychological erosion

• Treating your IKEA bookshelf like a hostage situation

They think you can’t tell.
You can tell.
They ask the same questions.
They use the same phrasing.
They both say “we” and then correct themselves.
This is not negotiation.
This is choreography.
You are allowed to respond politely.
You are also allowed to think: This item is not for you
Because the moment a deal requires coordination, the deal is cursed.
If one person wants it, they buy it.
If two people want it together, they will never show up.

Optional mic-drop lines (deploy sparingly):

• “I’ll go with the first person who can pick up at the listed price.”

• “Let me know if either of you would like to move forward.”

• “The price is the price.”

• “This item has stopped being about the item.”

• “We have moved past furniture and into ideology.”

• “This is no longer a transaction, it’s a committee.”

Short. Calm. Nuclear.

Image Courtesy of: AOL.com

Marketplace Truths We Don’t Talk About

• “Firm price” is a vibe, not a boundary

• “Pending pickup” means nothing

• If they say “someone else is interested,” there is no one else

• If they say “hold it for you,” they absolutely will not

• Everyone is lying a little

• You are allowed to lie back (politely)

Final Final Takeaway

Facebook Marketplace is not buying furniture. It’s speed dating with ottomans.

It’s project management with strangers who hate commitment.

It’s learning exactly how confident you can sound while wearing a robe and whispering “please respond” to your phone.

No one is okay in the DMs.
Some of us are just better at pretending until the chair is in the trunk.

BONUS SECTION: Profile Optimization

Looking Approachable Without Inviting Murder

Your Marketplace profile is not just a profile. It is a signal. Choose wisely.

Profile Photo

Clear face.
Sunglasses allowed but discouraged.
No wedding photo crop.
No car selfie unless you want distrust.

Cover Photo

A plant.
A dog.
A bookshelf.

Something that says “I have hobbies,” not “I have opinions.”

Bio (Optional But Powerful)

Keep it short. Slightly unhinged but polite.

• “Just here trying to give furniture a second life.”

• “Rehoming things responsibly.”

• “Buyer who shows up, I swear.”

Trust Signals

Answer quickly, but not immediately.
Use punctuation sparingly.
One emoji max. Two is flirting. Three is instability.

Red Flags to Avoid

“Cash only” in bio.
No profile picture.
A name like “Marketplace User.”

If their profile pic is a truck or an animal, proceed carefully.

This will not guarantee safety. But it will improve your odds.

Every so often, the Universe gives us something we didn’t know we needed. A chaotic neutral oracle. A tiny unlicensed therapist. A creature whose general vibe screams “I eat moths and your self-doubt.” That creature is Nutmeg.

Nutmeg is a feral Caribbean cat with what professionals might call a “creative anatomy.” She looks a little bit like someone built her out of spare cat parts and forgot to hit “align center,” but the result is stunning. She will stay small forever, which feels illegal but fine.

After surviving a youth of island politics and sea spray, Nutmeg has decided she’s ready to guide others through their own disasters. From relationship drama to workplace betrayal to your inability to stop crying at commercials about bread, Nutmeg will offer the blunt, possibly cursed advice you didn’t ask for but desperately need.

Her new column, Ask Nutmeg, will publish periodically, or whenever she feels like it. She accepts submissions at asknutmeg@gmail.com. Include a short description of your crisis and your pseudonym (for example, Crying at Bread Commercials in Burnaby or Wearing SPF and Regret in Regina). If selected, Nutmeg will respond with her signature mix of judgment, wisdom, and crumbs from the treat bag she just ripped open.

If your question is chosen, you’ll also receive a super Limited Edition Exclusive Nutmeg the cat sticker and magnet (available once the Canada Post strike is over, or when she decides to personally deliver them herself—whichever comes first).

Disclaimer: For entertainment purposes only. Nutmeg is not accredited in any field, including being a cat. She cannot help with legal, medical, or emotional matters, but she will try anyway. OBHD assumes no responsibility for any consequences that arise from following the guidance of a small, unhinged mammal.

Stay tuned for her first instalment, where Nutmeg tries to understand why humans chase the same heartbreak twice when there are literally birds outside.

What began as a casual yard sale spiraled into a six-hour pop-up lifestyle brand experience I didn’t ask for. People weren’t just browsing; they were treating my broken appliances like they’d stumbled into a Kinfolk editorial. Strangers touched my junk reverently, tossing around words like provenance, patina, and wabi-sabi. I nodded with the confidence of a man explaining crypto, then hid in a shrub to Google.

One woman whispered to her friend, “this is giving coastal grandmother,” while holding up a chipped ramekin. Someone else paid $18 for a kettle that has never successfully boiled water but apparently had “energy.”

By noon, I was giving life advice to strangers who confused confidence with price tag font choices. I stood under a hanging macrame plant holder, one foot on a stool, saying things like: “It’s less about the thing and more about how it feels in your hand.”

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That’s when it hit me: I had unintenionally become a lifestyle consultant. And like any self-proclaimed thought leader, I feel the need to offer unsolicited pro tips:

• Add Height. Use “cool” Not For Sale pieces to create little scenes. It doesn’t have to be an Anthropologie window, but yes, you are now merchandising the driveway. Shoes with shoes. Art supplies together. Taxidermied heirlooms and any naked artwork front and center.

• Music Matters. Yard sales are 40% inventory, 60% vibes. Put on something mellow but with a beat (think Khruangbin — or better yet, whatever plays in a designer grocery store that sells smoothies invented by Justin Bieber’s nanny).

  

• Atmosphere Is Everything. Run the smoke machine past the building manager, if it's a green light = vibes. Red light = incense stick, or trigger the neighbour kid’s bubble machine and pretend it is “site-specific art".

• Put the Phone Down. Eye Contact Is Currency. People will pay $12 for a mug if you stare directly into their soul. Keep conversations short, intentional, and just culty enough that they give you a friendship bracelet at the end.

• Always Cut a Deal. Not because you’re generous, but because nothing builds loyalty like letting someone “win” $2 off a broken toaster.

• Display Payment Options Like a Threat. Cash is king. Deals are negotiable. And yes, the tap function on Square works without the block thingy, impulse shoppers have no excuse!

• Pick the Right Day. Check the weather and the marathon schedule (if you’re in Vancouver, trust me). I line mine up with the hipster farmer’s market a few blocks away. Built-in foot traffic.

  

• Have a Free Bin. Pens, costume jewelry, expired vitamins, half-used bronzer, lidless containers, miscellaneous chaos. Every purchase earns the right to dig through your garbage for treasure. (Also, Tony M: if you’re reading this, you may have my wisdom teeth in that Japanese pill container.)

• Post It Online. Drop the event into Facebook community groups. It’s a refreshing break from “did anyone else hear that loud bang?”

  

• Bring a Wingman. Ideally a 6’5” Caribbean teddy bear whom 98% of humans and 100% of animals instinctively want to hug. Or, outsource to your building bestie’s cute kids running a lemonade stand. Either way = instant payday.

Final Takeaway:

I went outside to get rid of clutter. I came back with a following. My porch is a storefront now. If anyone wants a rusted bundt pan, it’s $14 and part of a story.

From the outside, it looks like a gym. On the inside, it's a high-intensity group delusion with matching water bottles and a scent you can’t quite place (it’s tea tree oil and fear). This is a non-exhaustive, deeply personal, wildly subjective and legally non-actionable breakdown of the fitness spaces that made me question whether I was joining a community or getting indoctrinated between sprints.

OrangeTheory

Type: Heart rate zone–based cardio + strength (treadmill, rowing, weights)
Vibe: Science-backed panic attack with a leaderboard
Smells like: Industrial-strength citrus cleaner and a TED Talk on ‘grit’

Initial Impression: High-stakes cardio in a room that glows like a haunted tanning bed. Your performance is tracked and publicly displayed. No pressure. The class starts with a heart rate monitor and ends with an identity crisis.

Some Observations:

• Wall-mounted screen reminds you that you’re not trying hard enough

• Trainer says your name like a threat

• You spend half the class pretending you’re not about to puke

• Someone shouted “I LIVE FOR THE ORANGE ZONE” and no one blinked

• The rowers look like they’re recovering from something personal

Final Answer: Cult. (Gamified exhaustion isn’t wellness. It’s religion.)

Barry’s (Bootcamp)

Type: Treadmill + strength intervals in timed blocks
Vibe: Sprint-lift-panic-repeat
Smells like: Ambition and a Himalayan salt lamp

Initial Impression: Dark room. Red lights. EDM curated by someone who should not have access to bass drops. You jog next to finance guys who call you “champ” and try to fist bump you mid-sprint. You leave drenched, disoriented, and not totally convinced you're allowed to quit. Then they hand you a cold towel and a smoothie with a secret menu and you’re like, “Okay fine, I’ll die here.”

Some Observations:

• Red lights, like a nightclub for pain

• High ponytails that have seen some things

• At least two people who don’t blink for the full 50 minutes

• When you think it’s over, they announce a new “Challenge” with a branded tote

• The trainer calls you “legend” and you believe them

• Then they hand you a smoothie and a chilled eucalyptus towel that absolutely feels lightly drugged but in a good way.

Final Answer: Cult. (Still can’t cancel. Still can’t stop.)

SoulCycle (Spinning)

Type: Indoor cycling with choreography and motivational screaming
Vibe: If spin class had an identity crisis and found God in a candle
Smells like: Bergamot, candle wax, and repressed mother issues

Initial Impression: You thought this was spinning. You were wrong. This is a candlelit confessional where a woman named Cass tells you to “leave it on the bike” while screaming Florence & the Machine lyrics. You cry. You pedal harder. You leave your body and see yourself from above. Is this therapy? No. Is it cheaper than therapy? Also no.

Some Observations:

• Instructor screams “this is your rebirth” while sobbing to Adele

• Shoes lock into the bike like a legally binding contract

• Mid-ride fist pumps followed by whispered affirmation

• I paid $36 to cry under a disco ball

• Left with a tank top that says “find your soul” in Comic Sans energy

Final Answer: Cult. (If church had better quads and a merch table.)

CrossFit

Type: Olympic lifting, gymnastics, cardio in WOD (Workout of the Day) format
Vibe: Bootcamp for people who refer to their gym as “the box”
Smells like: Elk meat and unresolved rage

Initial Impression: You did 14 rounds of something called a WOD and now your traps are tight and your sense of self is tighter. There is chalk on everything. The floor is covered in bruised egos and rogue kettlebells. Someone is already on their second shirt. You’ve been here eight minutes.

Some Observations:

• Every shirt has a deadlift pun or the word “beast”

• Too many high socks. Not enough snacks

• Macros are discussed more than feelings

• A stranger yelled “YOU’RE A BEAST” at me while I was dry heaving

• You’ll be peer-pressured into lifting a tire

Final Answer: Cult. (They replaced my blood with creatine.)

F45

Type: Circuit-based HIIT using bodyweight, weights, and sometimes cardio
Vibe: Functional training with the chaos of speed dating
Smells like: Dry shampoo, optimism, and pre-workout powder

Initial Impression: The workout equivalent of speed dating—new stations, new trauma, zero recovery. Screens guide you but also haunt you. No one seems to know what’s happening but everyone is enthusiastic about it. You don’t remember learning their names, but now you’re in a group chat and they want to hang out after class.

Some Observations:

• You’re led by a screen, not a person

• Guy named Connor says “push through” like he’s your life coach

• You’ve never met these people but they invite you to brunch

• Branded wristband equals membership in something... unclear

• Ends with applause and an upsell

Final Answer: Workout. (But the matching wristbands are suspicious.)

Lagree West (Reformer Pilates)

Type: Strength and stabilization on a spring-loaded machine
Vibe: Feels gentle until it breaks your core in half
Smells like: Lavender, latex, and your ex’s new girlfriend’s Instagram grid

Initial Impression: I laid down, thought “how bad could it be,” and then my obliques quietly exited the chat. The machine is sleek, black, and vaguely erotic.. like bondage gear rebranded for West Coast wellness.

You move slowly, intentionally, and with the constant fear that your foot will slip and you’ll be catapulted into next Thursday. The room is dark, very mirrored, and softly judgmental in a way that says you should be drinking chlorophyll water right now.

Some Observations:

• Everyone arrives early and stays late to take selfies and will ask you to move “just a step” if you decide to wear your Dad’s old Budweiser tee 😬

• The instructor has the calm, commanding affect of someone who has buried a body and also has a 6 a.m. waitlist.

• A woman in the front wore $400 leggings and didn't blink once

• Someone brought their own monogrammed grippy socks in a mesh pouch

• The playlist is 40% Lana Del Rey, 60% pain

Final Answer:
Workout. (Technically. Emotionally? TBD.)

Kundalini Yoga

Type: Breathwork + chanting + kriyas (specific sequences)
Vibe: Mystical awakenings and possible crying with strangers
Smells like: Sage, hope, and fermented air

Initial Impression: Was promised a gentle spiritual awakening. Accidentally screamed in unison for 8 minutes and called it breathwork. A woman named Raven touched my third eye and I cried for no reason. Felt something crack open inside me. Might’ve just been my meniscus.

Some Observations:

• Screamed into a room of strangers and for some reason felt very healing

• The teacher took a quick harmonium-solo break to place a crystal on my belly and tell me my trauma was peaking

• Everyone wore white and moved in sync like it was choreographed by Gwyneth’s subconscious

• I cried during a gong bath and was congratulated for “releasing my block”

Final Answer: Cult. (And I kinda want to go back?)

Hot Yoga (Bro Variant)

Type: Traditional yoga in a very heated room, often vinyasa or Bikram-based
Vibe: Detox meets frat boy spirituality
Smells like: Palo Santo and Axe

Initial Impression: You walk into a rainforest. No one is talking. No one has any body hair. The teacher is named Kyle, who hands you a damp strap and will later call you by name across the room and tell you to open your heart chakra wider. You set down your mat and instantly question every decision that led to this moment. The room is 110°F. Everyone is shirtless, hydrated, and radiating the energy of someone who does cold plunges for fun. Someone brought hot tea. Someone else brought a towel with ‘SWEAT IS TRUTH’ printed on it. A man near the front is mid-handstand and whispering “namaste” like a threat. The lights are low. The vibes are high. Technically it’s yoga, but spiritually it’s CrossFit in a mood ring.

Some Observations:

• Shirtless men reciting Sanskrit like they read one book once

• I slipped on my own aura

• Mid-pose, the instructor whispered “this is what freedom feels like”

• After class, everyone nodded at each other like they knew a secret

• A woman brought her own mat, crystals, and what I can only describe as spiritual ankle weights

Final Answer: Workout. (But only if you hydrate and emotionally detach.)

Rumble Boxing

Type: Cardio boxing + floor-based strength intervals
Vibe: Shadowboxing in the dark while EDM and self-doubt compete for dominance
Smells like: Synthetic leather, insecurity, and Ariana Grande’s body spray line

Initial Impression: The room is mostly dark, lit by flashing DJ lights and just enough visibility to make you wonder if bats might fly out of the ceiling. The bags hang like designer punching pods, already swinging slightly before class even starts. You’re encouraged to “go off” on them, which you do — politely, and with poor form. You’re told which number to hit and when, but the choreography is somehow both too fast and too simple. Overhead, a ceiling-mounted demo screen loops like a TikTok made by someone hotter and more coordinated than you. At one point I got clotheslined by my own bag, punched wrong, and accidentally made eye contact with myself. Then I smelled my gloves and nearly blacked out.

Some Observations:

• The floor is sticky but vibey

• You’re half boxing, half reading ceiling instructions

• You get free glove rentals for your first class, but are forced to buy hand wraps that, while covered in trendy animal print, will never be used again

• Someone wore a belly chain and no one questioned it

• The instructor DJs from a podium like it’s fitness Coachella

• No one corrects form but we all clap anyway

Final Answer: Workout. (Like Fight Club threw a sponsored event in an Equinox basement.)

Don’t leave me alone in this branded, candlelit hell. Tell me which class made you cry, sweat, and consider buying branded merch. Best confession wins a mystery gift in the actual mail, like the olden days 💌

Salt Spring: the land of unmonitored farm stands, barefoot ferry passengers, too many satchels,
and that unsettling moment where you realise you've spent $86 on cheese and soap before noon.

Here’s everything I heroically consumed on the island this weekend, alongside my rapidly declining self-respect:

Barb's Buns — “It’s Basically Breakfast” Justification

Ate: 46 cheese sticks, the only Nanaimo bar I’ve ever liked, a fir-scented candle (technically not edible but spiritually nourishing), Covered Bridge chips, and 86 bags of cookies for "the road."
Regret Level: All time high. Stomach: over it. Spirit: Held together by butter. Cookie bag: louder than my inner voice.

Ox Eat Grass — “Pastry That Permanently Altered My Personality

Ate: The most beautiful maple walnut cinnamon bun known to humanity: soft, sticky, lightly sweet, borderline spiritual. Technically, it was breakfast dessert — which is now a core part of my belief system. I will think about this bun, unprovoked, approximately once a week for the rest of my natural life.
Regret Level: Nonexistent. Zero notes. Would rearrange my travel plans and possibly my moral compass for another one.

Salt Spring Island Cheese Co. — “It’s Just a Sample” Lie #1

Ate: Goat cheese with truffle, goat cheese with garlic, goat cheese with literal flowers, and two scoops of goat milk gelato because I respect myself but not my mild-to-often-severe dairy allergy. Skipped the pizza (mistake) but it looked phenomenal.
Also saw: Exactly two goats. Honestly, I expected more.
Favourite part: The house right before the farm with a giant, aggressively spray-painted sign that screamed “KEEP GOING. NO CHEESE HERE.”
Regret Level: Moderate. The tiny toothpick portions trick you into believing you haven’t inhaled the equivalent of a small goat. Also now weirdly invested in the neighbourhood feud.

Photo courtesy of a Salt Spring resident who “doesn’t want attention” but also sent six follow-up emails about credit. Thank you @k33l3ybojangles.

Earth Candy — “The Best Secret Healthy Grocery Store (And Possibly a Portal to Middle Earth)”

This place looks like you're about to stumble upon Frodo in the produce section. Instead, you find cryptically good watermelon, mysterious jars of wellness things, passionfruit juice, sheep cheese (??), and more dried fruit than should legally exist in one building. Also: the vibe? Wholesome but slightly intimidating, like everyone there grows their own medicinal herbs, knows how to deliver a goat, and can probably build a house from sticks if required. You? You just wanted snacks.

Shoppers seem to either find spiritual bliss, organic boar salami, or a trampoline, depending on the day. I left hydrated, confused, and weirdly motivated to compost.

Ate: The best slice of watermelon of my life, handed to me by a man so naturally earthy it felt less like a purchase and more like a forest blessing.
Regret Level: None. Hobbit energy. Excellent snacks. Community gathering vibes. Slight fear of being judged for my lack of reusable produce bags.

Tree House Cafe — “It’s Salad… Adjacent”

Ate: A "salad" that was 70% fried halloumi and 30% denial. Felt great about it. Returned the next day and accidentally had the best breakfast of my life (Mexi-Scramble and the GUAC IS EXTRA). They serve seed bread, so medically speaking, that counts as health.
Regret Level: Mild. Cheese still isn’t technically a vegetable, but as they say, denial pairs well with both halloumi and burrata.

Buzzy's Smoked Meat Sandwich — “Salt Spring Meets Montreal”

Ate: One bite of someone else’s smoked meat sandwich that was so aggressively good I briefly blacked out and considered a career pivot to deli work.
Regret Level: None. Salt Spring, but make it Jewish Deli core.

The Saturday Market — “I’m Just Browsing” Myth

Ate: Artisan chocolate, honey samples, and casually half a loaf of sourdough while “testing” it with the intensity of a Michelin inspector and the grace of a carb-deprived raccoon.
Regret Level: Dangerous. Felt like I was smuggling carbs under my coat and would do it again.

Salt Spring Wild Cider — “It’s a Tasting Flight, Not Drinking”

Drank: Ginger Root, Plum, Pear, Salted Pineapple Perry, and the overwhelming urge to lie down in public.
Regret Level: Emotional. Bought three bottles I’ll absolutely forget to open until fall when I suddenly become “a cider person” again.

Stowell Lake Farm Stand — “I Know a Cult When I See One (And Honestly? Tempted.)”

Ate: A bag of loose carrots and a zucchini muffin bigger than a Big Mac… alone… in my car… at raccoon speed… while low-key considering abandoning my life to grow kale and attend mandatory sound baths.
Regret Level: Questionable. Delicious. Emotionally invested, legally unaffiliated (at this time).

True Love Pizza — “Turns Out, I Believe in Soulmates”

Ate: The Hot Mama and Dad Heartbreak pizzas on their sourdough, gluten-friendly crust, and suddenly understood why people write love songs.
Regret Level: Nonexistent. 10/10. Would elope with this pizza given the opportunity.

Salt Spring Island Mercantile — “Honestly, They Have Everything”

Ate: Fresh rice balls, a disturbingly excellent hot dog, pork & apple sausage rolls, sweet Italian turkey rolls, crustless quiches, spanakopita. Left with: camping supplies I don’t need, yet more artisanal soap, and a bottle of obscure liqueur I’ll probably open during a personality crisis.
Regret Level: Logistically high. I live nowhere near a campsite. Spiritually low. Iconic selection.

Morningside Organic Vegan — “Technically a Juice Bar, Spiritually a Coven”

Been: Three times. Still can’t tell if they sell smoothies or subtle life transformations.
Encounter: Walked in. Woman behind the counter (respectfully) radiated the unmistakable energy of someone who has absolutely stirred something under a full moon.
Asked for a drink. Was met with a low-key threatening direct question: “What would you like to achieve?”
First thought: Hydration.
What I actually said: “Inner peace or whatever’s in season”
Outcome: She nodded like that was the right answer. Left with a drink that tasted like pine needles, soil and ambition, a dab of essential oil on my wrist, and a very polite cat who inspected me for vibes.
Regret Level: Zero. Would 100% return for the bark-flavoured beverages, the cat, and the eccentric but comforting atmosphere.

Final Assessment:

Would I eat my way through Salt Spring Island again?
Yes.
Would my body protest, loudly and publicly?
Also yes.
Was it worth it?
Absolutely.