It’s just after 10 p.m. and I’m standing in a bikini near a makeshift dance floor. It’s dark; it’s loud. A man half my age twirls toward me.
“Have you tried the cold plunge?” he asks. “It’s better than alcohol.”
Has he read my mind? For several minutes, I’ve been willing my paper cup of cold herbal tea into something stronger. But it won’t work because I’m not at a bar; I’m at Othership, the sprawling wellness facility below Winners on Bloor Street.
Perhaps this baby-faced guy recognizes my unease and just wants to make me laugh. I chuckle, but he doesn’t, and it hits me: at 48, and newly single, I’m not just out of my depth at this invite-only social mixer for “ship-heads,” as devout Othership members are called. I’m in a different multiverse.
Call it Dating 2.0.
Back in my day, in the ‘90s and early naughts, dating was as simple as getting dressed, going out and drinking. Nowadays, the music may be similar, and you still take your clothes off to have a good time — or, at least, strip down to tiny triangles of spandex — but younger generations have a different definition of hanging out. In this brave new realm of space, time, matter and energy, wellness rules. The spa is the new nightclub and sobriety the new mind-altering substance. As I take in the scene, I feel a sudden kinship with Abe Simpson, Homer’s elderly crank of a father, who once said: “I used to be with ‘it’, but then they changed what ‘it’ was. Now what I’m with isn’t ‘it’ anymore and what’s ‘it’ seems weird and scary.”
“It’s not easy and it’s not for everyone,” says Myles Farmer, the co-founder of Othership, talking about moving through the facility’s sauna/cold plunge circuit. “But if you’re going through this challenge with somebody, it makes you feel more connected to them.”
I could use some connection. After nearly 18 months of life-altering events — my marriage ended, my father died and after war broke out in the Middle East and I felt the pain of rising antisemitism — I decided to embark on a quest for healing. It made sense to start at Othership, which has become Toronto’s primary wellness hub since opening in February 2022. (There are now two locations in Toronto and one in New York.) Wellness isn’t cheap: a single visit is $55, but multi-visit packages make it more affordable. People clearly love it: the social I attended is for members who have visited at least 22 times.
My initial thought is that a quiet schvitz would be an easy entrée into the growing wellness movement. How different could it be?
On the appointed day, I show up for the social 12 hours early. “Oh my!” exclaims an Othership guide (the company’s term for employee) before kindly explaining that I should come back at 9 p.m.
Later that night, a Star photographer and I inch our bare feet onto the tiled floor of the main space, which is complete with a minivan-sized fireplace. Among the coliseum of tiered banquettes, nearly nude 30-somethings cool off post-sauna or warm up after a dip in one of several gigantic, icy plunge pools. A DJ spins tunes as wet people shimmy nearby.
These “socials” are intended as a healthier alternative to a boozy night out, and Farmer says they’re often a catalyst for meeting people, including significant others. Phones aren’t allowed beyond the change rooms, which ensures that spa-goers are “super present.”
I follow a rush of people into the sauna and search for somewhere to sit. It’s shoulder to shoulder on the benches, and lively. A friend of my much younger sister recognizes me. I make a joke about needing a real drink.
But she’s on board with this sobriety thing.
“I really like it,” she says. “We’re into this culture.”
She and her boyfriend have been coming to Othership for a while, she says, and once they’re done around 10 p.m., they go home and have a great sleep. “It’s the best,” she says, as we stand up and head out of the sauna to cool off. We part ways at the DJ booth and I shuffle past the communal showers toward the plunge pools.
Othership has an unofficial no-snogging policy, but a few couples seem awfully close. More power to them, I think, trying not to give anyone the stink eye. Instead, I saunter over to a giant soaker tub where two men, both fit-fluencers with chiseled pecs, emerge together after their joint plunge. I put my pointer finger in, and immediately pull it out. Cold plunge is not on the menu for me tonight.
Back in the lounge, Derya Turin, 31, a guide in bright red lipstick and a skin-tight beaded number that wouldn’t be out of place at Disney On Ice, is preparing scented snowballs to throw over the hot coals in the sauna. A few minutes later, she flings glimmers of coloured light as she cartwheels and flips along the sauna’s warm wooden floor. The packed crowd hollers, hoots and waves towels.
I chat briefly with David London, 31, who tells me he’s come to “network.” He’s on his way to the plunge pools. Kyle Rogers has just returned from there. He shakes his head and beads of frozen water fly off in every direction. Briefly, I wonder if he’s around my age. He’s single, he says, and 34.
“It’s the best place to be,” he says. “It has a sexiness to it.”
Still cradling my tea, I lean against a wall in the lounge. Turin, post-performance, is pirouetting with a man her age. He breaks away from her and spins toward me, offering to guide me through a cold plunge
“It’s really not my thing,” I say. “Maybe another time.” Like, I think to myself, when you’re older.
Join my wellness journey by letting me if there’s something I should try. Reach me at [email protected]
