Tonight at Taekwondo Howard, our sensei (I'm actually not sure what we're supposed to call him), did a demonstration of dangerous pressure points to hit on the body. Except he used the eight year old in the class, while the five adults watched. I looked around to make sure there weren't cameras filming and I wasn't suddenly in a comedy film. Howard stuck his index finger in between the boys tiny scapula to show where he meant. "This is another spot you only hit if you mean it. It's known to kill." He pointed to the nape of the little boy's neck, "Here too."
We learned the second yellow belt form (I just spent ten minutes googling the actual name and found nothing). I struggled mightily with the choreography.
If someone shows me a movement, I can't just watch them and repeat, I need to go over it step by step (is this a back stance? which leg should I have my weight on? does my fist face out or in?) I need to be told exactly what goes where before I feel satisfied and can start committing it to memory. Add to that the fact that Laura and Michael both used to do martial arts when they were kids and so only have to be shown it once before it gleefully comes back to them and you have a frustrated Kris who doesn't want to learn the dumb form anyway. It has lunging blocks, spear hands and hammer fists and I can't do any of it.
There was a final strange moment at the end of class after we did two minutes of wall sits. Howard told us to lie on our backs with our legs up against the wall to let the something-or-other acid drain out of our muscles. He mentioned this was helpful after running as well. The father of the one tiny boy--who was waiting in the hallway for class to wrap-up--chimed in: "Oh, that's what [wife's name I don't remember] did when we were trying to get pregnant."
A pause all around as we process this.
"Yeah, that's for a different reason," said Howard.