Celebrities, they’re not like us. According to a Sunday Times Magazine piece this week, Orlando Bloom is living what can only be described as his fullest life in LA. I’m going to try and top-line his daily antics without any glib comments (wish me luck). After logging the quality of his rest on a sleep tracker, he leaves sleeping beauty Katy Perry in bed to begin his day of back-to-back zen-equalizing 90%-plant-based self-care. In fairness, it starts out quite relatably. He coos over his baby daughter, reflecting on fatherhood the second time around (Bloom has a 10-year-old son with Miranda Kerr). He mentions he’s a Capricorn. But things start to go awry before breakfast (a meal he apparently earns with a Nirvana-soundtracked hike). Orlando chants for 20 minutes, Orlando posts about Buddhism on his Instagram stories, Orlando reaches for the collagen powder. We are right on the cusp of silliness here as Orlando admits “It’s all quite LA, really” before happily plowing into his day peppered with a kind of woo-woo modern spirituality, seemingly designed to make reader’s eyes roll all the way back into their skulls.
The internet, god bless her, turned on Bloom’s daily routine, ridiculing his reverence of cattle (“the most beautiful thing ever”). Readers bemoaned his un-relatability with many crying spoof. It is, on reflection, a deeply impractical existence for a lad from Britain, a country so proud of its practicality, our make-do-and-mend mentality, our lack of airs and graces (even the Queen slogs through the mud at Balmoral). By far the most out-there aspect of Bloom's morning is the brain octane oil he ripples through his pre-breakfast, which sounds like something a high-functioning NASA astronaut sips from a gravity-packet. But in spite of my robust and protective cynicism, I found myself nodding along to his regime of meat-dodging, intermittent Lego-building, and reminders to respect the doorman. Orlando has the right idea.
The thing is, I don’t want relatability from my stars. I don’t want them to be like me. I don’t want them to keep it real. I want them to live in a way that I can’t even fathom, in gated castles with footmen and maids who turn and face the wall when they see you, affording a type of clean living that only comes from being filthy rich. It is so easy to knock Bloom’s life mechanic, but wouldn’t we all eat better and sleep better given the option? Wouldn’t we like to have our traditional, attainable self-care turbo-powered by vegan protein and a “team of people.” Wouldn’t we choose this if we could? It’s ridiculous, it’s optimized, but it’s not bad for you. This kind of amorphous “wellness” is believably, if not scientifically, life-extending. When you can afford organic hazelnut mylk do you really need to guzzle tap water to prove a point?
If I were as rich and Hollywood as Orlando Bloom, I might give up pedestrian eating habits too. I’m not the only one to quietly investigate Bloom's practices (Google searches for brain octane oil spiked immediately—I'd guess some sales, too).
Even at ground-level wellness is a privilege, a sign of successful capitalism, where you can afford to create a physical, emotional, and intellectual sanctuary. His particular brand of wellness may be inaccessible to most, but perhaps we should not write-off his philosophy entirely. As Bloom says: It's a marathon, not a sprint.