I know many of you have been reading my blog for years now.
You’re probably not shocked at the title “I dumped Scott for Cody” because you know I’m scheming you with my words.
You are correct. The title is not what it appears.
Cody is a girl.
I dumped Scott for Cody. The statement is still true.
No, I’m not a lesbian.
I dumped my old workout partner – Scott – for a new workout partner – Cody.
I do not sugar coat blog posts. We’re all friends here and by friends, I mean real friends. Not some Facebook friend that has OMG. Best. Husband. Ever. Or an Instagram friend with smiling kids at the park, because it’s a good day with good friends! Friends also don’t let friends post videos of feet climbing a stair stepper. We get it. You’re working out.
I mean, it’s totally cool if you scrapbook your life on social media. You’re proud. We all are.
But I don’t scrapbook.
I’m a storyteller. If my husband gives me a present for no reason – he did something awful and he feels guilty. If I go to the park with my kids and friends – you won’t know about it unless something monumental happened, like the time 4-year-old Emma dropped her pants, squatted, and peed in the splash park. And as far as working out – again, you won’t know about it unless I dump Scott for Cody.
Fitness is not new to me. I’ve had a gym card since college and I use it a lot. I’ve worked out with Scott at a gym for the past 15 years. I’ve trained like an elk hunter. I’ve trained for a 5K with my friend, Heather. My new neighbors dragged me to a mud race.
I’m not athletic. I never played sports. I guess the only reason I’ve worked out for so many years is habit. And I train my body to handle something specific – reeling in a marlin, skiing in the mountains, running a 5K or a mud race. As Scott’s wife, my lifestyle is an active one.
Cody is drowning me facedown in my own puddle of boob sweat at Fusion.
There are three locations in the area but one concept – you sign up for a class at any of the locations. You show up, take the hour-long class taught by an instructor, and you leave. It’s not an open gym; it’s classes only. And if you miss the class you signed up for, you’re charged. This forces you to not be a quitter. This is good for me because I have no problem quitting free of charge.
And now I can’t quit. I’m a hostage.
That came out wrong. Let me try that again – I dread walking into the building.
Fusion’s tagline is “shock your body.” It’s printed on the door and it makes me feel like I’m going to get electrocuted if I touch the door handle. But that’s ridiculous. Electrocution.
They shock your body during class instead.
Things I’ve learned the past few weeks at Fusion:
I’m the stumbling baby giraffe everyone watched on the Internet and I swear everyone is watching me. Not only am I tall and lanky but I can’t tell my left side from my right side. The mirror confuses me. Cody reminded me that everyone is lost when they first start Fusion. She gave me helpful words of encouragement like “find a spot so you can shadow the instructor” and “your days of not washing your hair are gone” and “don’t bring a tiny washcloth as your sweat rag. You might need a beach towel at first.”
Barre is not pronounced “bear” as in “the bear is trying to kill me.” It’s pronounced “bar” as in “the workout is on the ballerina bar” or “I swear to God, if I make it out alive, I’m going straight to the bar after this.” Ballerinas make me cry.
Cardio Sweat Lab should be called Class Swamp Ass. I asked Google if excessive sweating is a health condition. Google said I might die. I apply deodorant on my crotch now. I say this like I’m joking but, in fact, I am not.
Bikini Boot Camp is not taught in bikinis. So don’t ask, guys. Bikini Boot Camp refers to kicks, jabs, jumps, and uppercuts for the next time you ask if this class is taught in bikinis.
I don’t understand why we have eyebrows anymore. The sweat, you guys. The sweat. Isn’t the point of eyebrows to stop sweat from dripping and burning saltwater into your eyes? I peel off my workout clothes when I get home because they’re stuck to my skin. And then I go straight to the shower because Cody brought me to a new level of boob sweat Scott has never given me. I’m still not a lesbian.
The burpees at Fusion make me see the Devil himself. Did you know burpees are a workout developed by Satan? It’s true. I saw him. Here’s what you do: Stand, drop to a squat, jump your feet back to a plank position, jump your feet to a squat again, and jump up to a standing position. Repeat. The stars come out and meet my friend, Lucifer.
Everyone at Fusion has favorite instructors. I haven’t found my favorites. Each one has a special way of making me wring my sweaty hair all over my mat at the end of class. I’ve determined Satan must be a woman with a rocking six-pack body.
No one will call you out if you show up with your workout pants inside out. I had two choices once I realized what my dumbass did: 1. Grab the instructor’s microphone and announce that I know my pants are inside out, please don’t judge me. Or 2. Text Cody what I did and tell her I must walk out of the building backwards, reading “Shock your body” as the door closes in front of me. I went with option 2.
I don’t sugar coat my blog posts. Fusion takes me through a workout I’ve never experienced before. When I’m done with a class, I get in the car and sign up for another one.
Because I dumped Scott for Cody.