Day 3 in Prescott, and my family’s packing up the Accord and heading southeast toward Sedona—a town where even the air seems micro-filtered and infused with healing intentions. We’re leaving behind the dusty frontier cosplay of Prescott for a place where every barista moonlights as a Reiki healer and people pay $25 for smoothies made with powdered enlightenment, ashwagandha, and something called “brain dust.”
This is what passes for a vacation vibe shift: from antique shops and elk jerky to chakra tuning and cactus-laced kombucha. Sedona isn’t just a town—it’s a wellness compound disguised as a zip code. Everyone’s here for a spiritual oil change, a digestive reboot, or to realign their third eye after burning out from too many Zoom meetings.
Somewhere between the red rocks and the overpriced adaptogens, I’ve started drafting a post-vacation manifesto—call it my personal wellness lite protocol:
- Eat 2,200 calories a day, divided into three 600-calorie meals and one 400-calorie snack, because structure gives my chaos purpose.
- Cut my kettlebell workouts to four days a week, swap in some power yoga and stationary bike rides, and try not to feel like I’m betraying my inner Viking.
- Eat more plants, limit fish to three days a week, and resist the call of animal fat whispering to me like a siren from a deep fryer.
- Don’t buy a $1,000 recliner, no matter how luxurious, because it reeks of surrender—a velvet-lined sarcophagus for a man easing into obsolescence.
- Try being a nice guy, because cynicism is easy and kindness might be the only true detox.
That’s about all the spiritual bandwidth I’ve got. Enlightenment on a budget. Grace in four-day installments. Wellness with a sarcastic aftertaste.
Cinemorphosis 
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