No one had mentioned all meals would be vegan. My husband, Harry, had sworn he’d forwarded the e-mail a month prior. He hadn’t. So, the day before we left for our trip, my inbox sounded with a Thirty Day Advance Prep Guide, which almost made me collapse.
Of all the people who rhapsodized about the Ranch Malibu, no one ever happened to mention how hard-core it was. My husband wanted to take me on a special long weekend to celebrate my 50th birthday, and I’d just come off a six-week shoot with 14-hour days. In heels. I was bone-weary-level exhausted and so ready to be pampered at the famous California spa’s brand-new outpost in New York’s Hudson River Valley, decorated by the genius Steven Gambrel. Soignée! I’d feel clean, I’d feel relaxed. I’d feel extremely rested.
So they wake you up at 5:00 a.m. with Tibetan chimes. Fun fact about me: I don’t like being controlled. Also, my blood pressure is a vampiric 86/60, so I need nine hours of sleep a night. When I heard I couldn’t get a normal iced coffee with half-and-half to wake my ass up, I had to take a deep breath and calmly cover my simmering rage with a pasted-on smile.
My mouth: Oh! O.K. … Healthy, healthy … Gotcha. Cool.
My brain: I will burn this place to the fucking ground.
At first, I was extremely worried I would crack. But luckily the grounds are so breathtakingly gorgeous I was swept away in the moment, and somehow the lack of red wine and cheese that wasn’t made from jerked-off cashews didn’t bother me.
First of all, the enormous manor house feels like a British estate, stone outside and carved mahogany inside, and absolutely breathtaking in every room. Built at the turn of the century, it was a wedding present (I’d like to register for a mansion, please!) from J. P. Morgan to his great-granddaughter, who married the great-grandson of Alexander Hamilton. That’s what Jane Austen would call an advantageous marriage. The home is beyond exquisite and renovated beautifully by Gambrel in creams and browns that swaddle guests in a luxurious dreamy haven.
When you arrive you are warmly greeted by a lovely staff; they immediately made me feel better about my shitty eating habits and didn’t judge me, as I’d feared. We had been instructed in that e-mail to wean ourselves off coffee, alcohol, and sweets; I admitted sheepishly that I’d chugged a venti iced latte with vanilla syrup in the car on my way over, and they said I’d be fine.
Upon check-in, each of the 19 guests was given a two-way Motorola radio, which was the resort-wide system of communication, and we gathered in a circle to hear the daily schedule of 5:30 a.m. stretch class, 6:00 a.m. breakfast, 7:00 a.m. departure for a four- or two-hour hike. Then lunch, then fitness class and yoga, plus a (thank God) massage. I was terrified. Not only was I completely ill prepared for the physical challenge, I was even less able to grapple with the steeper social one: three group meals a day.
Luckily, in both cases I was fine. Well, I certainly didn’t mail it in on the hikes—I struggled the entire time (and that’s with the shorter option), but I felt very accomplished afterward. The meals were way better than I’d feared, thanks to the extremely talented and creative chef, who somehow made zoodles taste almost pasta-like. The calorie restriction was tough, and each night I dreamed about food, insanely. And not food I ever eat—my brain was playing TGI Fridays commercials and greasy slow-mo shots of bloomin’-onion porn.
And I’d also had nothing to fear about my spa-mates. Every single person was super-nice, not a bitchy Karen in the bunch. That was huge, because you spend so much time together, one poison pill could taint the whole vibe. We also had group hugs before each hike and some going-around-the-table moments at dinner, so I felt cozy about all the in-the-circle, which was nice/rare. And the staff was so incredibly kind and knowledgeable as well.
In addition to the aforementioned schedule, there are electives such as IV drips (my longevity-obsessed husband got NAD+ and a buffet of injections including glutathione, B12, and other vitamin jabs), Reiki, energy readings, chiropractic sessions, and colonics. The hydrotherapy specialist, Cheryl, who is also a virtuoso masseuse, was busy with multiple guests, though I chose to pass anyway, considering the vegan menu was its own colonic. I told her that one of my childhood friends had had a Barbie shoe come out of her ass into the water tube and asked her if she’d seen anything like that (she hadn’t), and then I mused about the penny I’d swallowed as a kid.
In the end, I learned a lot about wellness but also a lot about myself. And that is I don’t care about wellness. To paraphrase Taylor Swift, whose lyrics I only know against my will via cultural osmosis, I’m the problem, it’s me. The Ranch is an amazing trip; I felt great and my skin was glowing after the forced hydration of three liters in our Camelbaks, but I also feel great after a quesadilla and a spicy marg, which is exactly what I inhaled when we screeched out of there a day early. It was like Thelma and Luís, except instead of gunning it into the Grand Canyon, we burned rubber straight to our fave Mexican restaurant. We’d earned it.
Jill Kargman is the author of Sprinkle Glitter on My Grave and Sometimes I Feel Like a Nut. She also created and starred in the Peacock series Odd Mom Out
