The faucet fills my glass with water, but I don’t dare take a sip yet. As I squeeze the lemon into my drink, I mentally levitate. It’s true that I am now earthier and less judgmental. With just one sip of lemon water, I feel myself become effortlessly radiant.

I skip my morning coffee because I’m high on vitamin C. My body is detoxing, and I feel more in tune with the miraculous rhythms of life. I tell my boss I won’t be coming into work today, or ever again. My corporate marketing job has always felt beneath me. When my boss sends me a threatening email in response, I forward it to a reputable journalist. For I am a whistleblower. My senses feel heightened, and I am suddenly porous to the universe and all it offers me.

During my eight-mile run, I barely sweat. A passerby points at me, asking whether I’ll give the eulogy at his funeral. I am now an empath and tell him his stage four cancer is not actually a death sentence. Has he tried lemon water? I imagine a cable news anchor asking me what it feels like to save lives for a living.

“It feels good, Anderson. It feels damn good.”

After soaking in the bathtub for an hour, I am pruned and immortal. I fry an egg in a perfect circle. I meditate with my eyes open. I become bilingual after watching a Spanish soap opera for fifteen minutes. I get Wordle in two guesses.

Is this how Neil Armstrong felt when he set foot on the moon?

When my husband walks into the kitchen, I feel more attracted to him than ever. The fight we had last night about our impending divorce feels like a poem, abstract and far away.

“Want some lemon water, babe?” I say, giving him a toothy smile.

“No,” he responds, but I can tell he’s super in love with me. I squeeze him a glass anyway, knowing he’ll thank me later.

It’s true I slept with his brother, but wasn’t it the Dalai Lama who said forgiveness breaks the cycle of suffering?

I notice a screaming toddler in our living room, drawing on our walls with a magic marker, but I no longer allow her toxic energy to consume my life. I stare at her and decide this is the moment I shall set her free. I am no longer a mother, a thankless job. I give her a quartz crystal and wish her good luck.

While sitting under a tree in a hemp muumuu, I ponder whether I should become a novelist or a shaman. Realizing I have no background in either field is no obstacle, because I no longer have limiting beliefs about my potential. I take a three-hour nap, then buy a journal and five hundred lemons, and sell the rest of my earthly possessions.

I book a one-way ticket to Bali. As the plane’s wheels lift during take off, I smile to myself and muse, “When life hands you lemons…”