The Wellness Seminar

The ballroom smelled of stale coffee and desperate ambition. Forty-seven years old, and here I sat at a corporate wellness seminar, watching a man in an oversized cowboy hat explain how we were all at the bottom of a success pyramid.

"Each level," he said, gesturing to a foam pyramid on stage, "represents a tier of achievement. Most people die at the base. You want to be the capstone."

I'd taken my vitamin that morning—a lemon-flavored gummy promised to boost energy and mental clarity. It sat in my stomach like a lie.

The woman beside me, Sarah from accounting, caught my eye. We'd shared a moment at the holiday party three months ago, standing beneath mistletoe that someone had hung as a joke. Nothing happened. But the memory of her breath against my cheek, the way she'd leaned in just a fraction too close—these had become my private pyramid. I built each level carefully during meetings: she smiled at my presentation (foundation), she lingered at my desk (structure), she mentioned her husband's business trips were getting longer (apex).

"Who's ready to ascend?" Cowboy Hat shouted. The crowd cheered. I felt ill.

Later, by the buffet, Sarah approached. She wore her winter coat, clutching a paper plate with untouched fruit.

"Roger," she said. "I'm putting in for a transfer."

The pyramid in my head collapsed. "Oh."

"It's not—I just need space." She looked tired. "My husband's vitamins aren't working anymore. figuratively speaking."

I should have said something professional. Instead: "I took a vitamin this morning."

She laughed, surprised and genuine. "What kind?"

"Lemon gummy. For energy."

"Do they work?"

"No," I said. "But the packaging is very convincing."

She touched my arm. The contact burned through my sleeve. "I'll miss you, Roger."

"The transfer paperwork—is it a pyramid scheme?" I asked, and she laughed again, louder this time, drawing attention from the wellness crowd.

When she left, I went outside. The winter air bit my face. I found a payphone—antique, decorative, working—and called my ex-wife. She answered on the third ring.

"I'm at a seminar," I said. "They told us to be capstones."

"Are you drunk?"

"No. I just realized I've been building the wrong structure."

"You always did overthink things," she said, but her voice was gentler than it had been in years. "Come for dinner. Bring those gummy vitamins. The kids will get a kick out of them."

Snow began to fall. I watched it catch on my wool hat, each flake a tiny roofless building. The pyramid was gone. Something else might rise in its place. I didn't know what yet, but for the first time in months, the uncertainty didn't frighten me.