The Smoothie of Exile: A Dream of Paid Rejection

Last night, I dreamed my twin daughters and I joined what looked, at first glance, like a utopian community center—part fitness club, part cafe, part self-help retreat. The kind of place where earnest posters extol the virtues of “togetherness” and “belonging” in fonts that scream inclusion. There was a smoothie bar. A snack station. A lunch buffet curated by someone who probably used the phrase “elevated casual.” Discussion groups buzzed in breakout rooms, and the coffee lounge pulsed with laughter, back-pats, and the shared glow of collective smugness.

But not for us.

From the moment we arrived, we were treated like decorative ghosts—visible only enough to be politely ignored. The regulars were effervescent with each other, all air kisses and animated banter, but when it came to my daughters and me, they offered only the vacant glance you reserve for broken vending machines. At first, I rationalized it: we were new. They didn’t know us. Social ecosystems take time.

Then the invoices started arriving. Yes, invoices—for a couple of smoothies, a shower, maybe a banana or two. The charges totaled over $200, wrapped in clinical fonts and passive-aggressive phrasing: “usage fee,” “non-member adjustment,” “community maintenance surcharge.” I considered paying them—not because they were fair, but because I foolishly believed acceptance might be purchasable, like premium seating at the theater of belonging.

But no. The smiles never came. The warmth never thawed. And so, like exiles from Eden (if Eden had a kale bar), we left. Defeated, thirsty for something we couldn’t name, we wandered to a local supermarket and filled our cart with bottled drinks of every variety. Coconut water, green tea, mineral fizz—liquid substitutes for the affirmation we were denied. As if hydration might heal what inclusion had refused to.