I picked Jake up early from school to take him to his orthodontist appointment, and on the way we stopped by the soccer fields to find a sweatshirt Matt had left there the night before.
The fields were deserted except for one man doing….something. He was running, bent at the waist into a ninety degree angle and slaloming through a line of orange cones, every step bringing his knees up to his chest. I’ll wait while you go try this.
Huh. I’m not sure what this exercise would do.
“OK,” I said to Jake, ” that’s weirder than the tai-chi-in-the-park people.”
“Oh come on! Tai chi is cool! What about those people up the street?”
“The older, Chinese couple who do tai chi in their driveway?” I ask.
“Yeah, they’re cool.”
When they do it is cool, because they aren’t pretentious gits doing tai chi in the park. I point out to Jake that this couple has moved here quite recently from China, and for them maybe tai chi in their driveway is the equivalent of jogging to an American.
“But, it’s a martial art,” Jake says, ” they could kill you.”
“The nice elderly Chinese couple up the street could kill me with their evening tai chi?”
“Yeah, it originated as a training regimen in the Chinese Army.” Beside me, Jake moves slowly into a pseudo-tai chi position, and glares at me fiercely.
“Honey, they could only kill me if I moved veeeerrryy slowly.”
“But if they sped it up, they’d be deadly.” He speeds up the faux-tai chi, and looks a bit like a crazed monkey.
“Like tai chi with cocaine thrown in, is what you’re saying?” I ask.
“I just can’t see the older Chinese couple snorting cocaine, honey. I think I’m safe.”