My Wife, the Zumba Instructor: Mind if I Just Say… 'WOW!'?

Jeanette Reyes-Fuchs, Zumba Instructor

The Baker Center in Austin is an old school building that has been re-purposed to house meeting spaces for the Austin Independent School District.  It has the musty air and tiny toilets that make you imagine generations of children making their way through these hallways, since the structure first opened back in 1911.

On this particular rainy Saturday in November, I see a whiteboard with the wo
rds "ZUMBA THIS WAY!" written in red marker, in familiar handwriting, leaning against one of the outside doors.  My wife, Jeanette Reyes-Fuchs, has been excited, nervous, and energized about this day for weeks now.  She has invited several area Zumba instructors to participate in a fundraiser in support of the families in South Austin who lost everything in local flooding a few weeks ago.

My wife's passion for Zumba is nothing new; she has been very into the exercise/dance craze for a few years now, even taking the time to become a certified instructor by attending an intensive, day-long workshop in San Antonio a couple of years ago.  My boys and I have become accustomed to the pounding of her music, and to when she closes herself in the office and practices along with YouTube videos.

My two sons and I make our way into the Baker Center, following the thumping music that sounds down a dreary hallway.  We enter a large room that has a stage at the far end, along with vestiges of cafeteria serving windows on the opposite wall.  This was an early "cafetorium," no doubt, and is now serving as the site of my wife's Zumba-thon.  She greets us warmly.  I can tell by her expression she's a little surprised to see us.  She introduces us around to a number of people who, like her, are dressed in energetically-colored clothing that projects a certain degree of peacockish joy.  Almost all the garments have "Zumba" printed on them somewhere.

"I'm so nervous," she confides in me in a low voice.  "My turn is coming up."

"Just have fun with it," I say.

The other instructors are good.  Each brings their own spin to the practice of leading the group through a series of moves.  I participate here and there, mostly out of politeness.

And then it happens.  My wife moves up to the stage and the songs my kids and I are so used to hearing at home comes over the PA system.  Suddenly, Jeanette's face changes, and the whole room is captivated by her.  Her moves are synchronous, flirtatious and fun.  She cues us through our movements non-verbally, by way of hand signals, facial expressions and the like.  She connects with each of us in a way that makes us all feel special, as if we're all dancing with her.  Some of her songs are in Spanish, and others are in English.  She sings along with all of them.

At a certain point I realize I have become completely unselfconscious about what I am doing, even though I am, no doubt, pretty well out of step.  I also realize that I have a huge smile on my face that won't go away.  It's a difficult feeling to describe, but it's something I hope every person in my situation -- in a long-term relationship with the same person for a number of years -- can feel at some point in their life together.  At the risk of stepping into melodrama and smarminess, I fall a little more in love with my bride on this morning, as I follow along with her Zumba moves and fall victim to the charms of her infectious stage performance.

I know I am biased, but she is really, really good.  Others think so, too -- even the seasoned Zumba instructors she has recruited for the event.  She has found her passion, and my hope is that she will pursue it fully and deeply.  To say I am proud of her is an understatement.  She has my full-on support.

If there is something about which you know your partner is passionate -- whether it's fantasy football, needlepoint, scrimshaw or bird-watching -- do yourself a favor:  Go be with him or her when they do that particular something.    I promise you that if you feel anything near what I felt at Jeanette's Zumba-thon fundraiser last Saturday, you'll be more than glad you did.

The Author…Swept Away

Climbing the "Rock" Wall of Life

One of the best features of the fitness center we belong to – along with many other great features – is that it has a room devoted to rock climbing. I did it once – once – and I’m here to tell you that if you’re someone my size, who has suffered the fate of a slowing metabolism, paralleled by a propensity for beer and an addiction to sugar, it is not easy. There’s a counterweight pulley system that allows you to climb safely, but it really means you are pulling your own weight, quite literally.

That’s why the kids make it look so easy. Their weight and their strength to pull it are much more closely matched than mine. It’s amazing to watch them scale the walls so quickly. There is absolutely no fear of heights, and falling when harnessed into a counterweight pulley system is downright fun, so they certainly don’t fear that.

In one sense, the rock wall is a metaphor for their growth, as they overcome challenges, and go from, “I can’t do this” to “Hey, I did it, and I’m proud.” It is the week-by-week manifestation of their growing confidence and sense of their own ability. On the other hand, however, it occurs to me that it also represents a bit of a set-up.

The rock wall at Lifetime Fitness is not a rock wall at all. In fact, it’s made of some kind of rubberized plastic composite, so that when you whack your knee on it, your knee bounces off the “wall.” You feel your weight only when pulling up from whatever point you are currently at, to the next destination. As soon as you move downward, the counterweight kicks in and lowers you gently to the ground. The ground is not rock either. It is a leaf pile of recycled auto tire flakes. One could argue that children are being given a false sense of what it means to climb a rock. If and when they ever do decide to dig some pitons into an actual rock face, they will learn in the first minute that they are in a completely new, and very real situation.

It’s sort of analogous to the kind of parent I’m trying to move away from being. When you’re the Fun Daddy, and you never discipline your children, you become the rubberized rock wall, and you deprive your children of the knee scrapes that will help them develop real strength of character. By “protecting” my children from pain, I am really putting them at a disadvantage in later life, a disadvantage they may very well resent me for.

The secret I’m learning as I get better at this parenting stuff is that you can do both. You can be rock when they need the rock and recycled tire flakes when they need that softness. The important thing for you to remember is not to let one parent become all rubber and the other to become all rock. That’s the way the whole wall comes tumbling down, and then everybody loses.

Giving in to Valentine's Day

This is one of those holidays about which I've got a tremendous amount of ambivalence, which can border on outright hostility at times, depending on my mood. Let me start by acknowledging my single friends, as well as those who are mired in unhappy marriages and relationships. I remember what Valentine's Day feels like to you, and the whiny complaining you're about to hear pales in comparison to what your feeling today. I recognize that. So consider yourselves "acknowledged."

Unlike some couples I know, Jeanette and I did not decide to get married, or begin going out, or have our first kiss, on Saint Valentine's Day. I can understand why people choose to celebrate each other on the dates that commemorate these events, but being forced to spend money on flowers, chocolates, or whatever it is, seems so random to me. Every year I try to collude with my wife on this point. "Let's not fall into this corporate bullshit trap, honey. What do you say? No Valentine's Day for us this year?"

This conversation usually happens right when they first start with the diamond and lingerie ads -- just after the New Year. At that point -- so far removed from the upcoming holiday, she's likely to say, "Yeah, sure. Why not? Let's skip it." And I am pleased that she is my partner -- not only in life, but in standing up to this annual corporate mugging of the American people. We won't be pulled into it. Hell NO!

You'd think I would have figured it out by now. As we draw closer to February 14, and the ads intensify, and more and more people around us volunteer their plans for the day, and solicit ours, she invariably comes to me. It happens every year, in different places, at different times. This year it was on a Sunday evening, January 30, as we straightened up the kitchen after a good weekend of its use.

"And yes, honey," she said resolutely (out of nowhere, I might add -- the "yes" suggested we'd just been discussing the matter, even though we hadn't said a word about it since New Years), "I DO want you to make a big deal over me for Valentine's Day."

I learned a long time ago that Jeanette is not interested in my political opinion on this particular holiday. It is of no concern to her whether it is man-made or somehow intrinsic to our union. She is a woman and, as such, wishes to be wooed and courted and cared for and doted upon. In a word, she wishes to be loved. And in her defense, who among us doesn't share this wish?

As artificial as the day may be, Valentine's is more of a symbol than anything else. So yes, I got her the kind of flowers she likes, and yes, she got me some pajamas with hearts on them. And you know what? I absolutely loved receiving them from her.

Happy Saint Valentine's Day, y'all!