Peacock Lagoon Closed (to men) for “Wellness Wednesday”

It was the kind of summer day poets write about—83 degrees, a soft breeze, sunlight glinting off martini glasses, and just enough humidity to make a dip in The Peacock Lagoon feel downright spiritual.

Except no one could swim.
At least, not the men.

That’s because, at 10:03 a.m., a freshly embossed sign appeared at the gate to The Peacock Lagoon, reading:

“CLOSED FOR WOMEN’S WELLNESS WEDNESDAY – By Invitation Only”
(No exceptions. Yes, even you, Brad.)

The Lockout

By noon, over two dozen male members had congregated just outside the velvet rope leading to the pool deck, forming a ragtag crowd in pastel polos, high-end swim trunks, and confusion.

Several held towels over their shoulders like they’d walked straight out of a Ralph Lauren ad—and into heartbreak.

“I booked a poolside Negroni massage three weeks ago,” grumbled Member Alan Forsythe. “They said I could reschedule for October.”
(He visibly wilted at the thought.)

Lord Reginald Worthington III arrived in linen resort wear and immediately demanded to know “what sort of matriarchal coup this is.”

Inside the Lagoon

Reports from inside the barricade are murky, but word has it Victoria Langley (Director of The Elysian Retreat) and Eleanor Van Pelt curated the affair as a “low-stimulation spa integration event” for select women members. The scene allegedly included:

• Floating infused cucumber platters
• Silk blindfold meditation sessions
• A harpist in a private cabana

Also: not a man in sight.

The Mutiny Brews

Back at the gate, unrest was growing.

• Chadwick Remington IV was seen attempting to scale the privacy hedge before being politely removed by Isabella Vaughn.
• Clive “Wrench” Wadsworth arrived in swim trunks (no one asked him to), shook his head at the sign, and muttered something about “structural injustice.”
• Max Sterling offered free poolside cocktails “if anyone finds a way in,” which only worsened the situation.

By 2:00 p.m., a member-led “Equal Access Aquatics” petition had 43 signatures—though two were just doodles of martinis and one read “Let Me Swim, Damn It!”

The Resolution?

At 4:17 p.m., the velvet rope was quietly removed. No announcement. No apology.

Just a subtle sigh from a now-relaxed Eleanor Van Pelt and the faint scent of lavender evaporating into the breeze.

The men rushed in—towels flapping, cocktails sloshing, and pride thoroughly wounded.

Will there be another “Wellness Wednesday”?
Absolutely.
Will the men ever recover?

Only time, and suntan lines, will tell.