The Luck of the Irish.

Why do I dance? I don't know. If you had asked me a year ago what I'd be doing, I'd never in a million years have guessed that I'd be dancing. Never. But the truth is, that is what I'm doing. Perhaps I am trying to instill grace into myself.

Fat chance of that. My right leg is about an inch-an-a-half longer than the other, my spine is all crooked, my shoulders don't line up, and neither do my hips. I am probably the most unbalanced and most accident-prone creature on the market. Let's just say I'm clumsy. Or perhaps gracefully-challenged? To add to that, my muscle memory is way slow, and my inter-brain-muscle communication has a few kinks in it. So it takes me twice as long as the other dance students to learn the moves, and much much much much longer to do without looking like a fool. I'm not complaining (or at least I don't mean to), because those are the facts. I'm pretty happy about what I can do, because truth be told, if I had never had that surgery in the first place, I'd probably be a lot worse off.

If the BYU Dance Department graded on effort, I'd be fine. It doesn't. It grades solely on how good you actually are. I'm never too far behind, but I'm always struggling. Last semester I took beginning social dance and beginning Irish dance. Social dance went all right. I definitely didn't excel. But I felt like I learned what I was supposed to. But Irish dance? Not so much. I had a few mental breakdowns just from that class... that class that didn't really matter. That half-credit class...

So spring term. I take intermediate social dance and ... beginning Irish dance, again. I've never retaken a class before. Never. It kind of bruised my ego a little. Well, a lot.

I remember when I came to Irish dance this term and some of the other students found out I was retaking it. I was met with the inevitable inquiry, "Oh, did you fail it last time?"

I blinked. "No. I got a B. I was delighted with that grade."

It was their turn to blink. "You got a B... and you retook it?"

My response went something like this... I didn't care about that grade. I was not here to add another A to my resume, thank you. I was here to learn Irish dance. I didn't do that last semester. So I'm here to try again. And I'm proud to say... although I am not even close to being the best in the class, I am keeping up. I am actually learning Irish dance. And I don't care if I still don't get an A on the retake. That's not why I'm here.

On the other hand... in social dance, I really am just barely keeping up. Every move involves me being spun like a top. Spin, spin, spin! That, of course, requires great balance, which I don't have. I have to practice spinning without losing my balance at home. If I can spin, I can do it. If I can't, I trip over the guy I'm dancing with, or even fall flat on the floor. But I'm not faring too badly... I've gotten 87s on all my tests, which I'm pleased with.

But I'm behind again in social dance. Last week I missed Thursday's class because I was feeling horribly unwell. So last night, I set off to class fearing that I'd be totally lost and confused. I decided to walk over the long way, seeing as the weather wasn't too bad and I wouldn't mind a walk. I slipped on some shoes, grabbed my dancing heels and my keys, and set off for the RB.

All would have been well, but suddenly --

I gasped out in pain, and stumbling, dropped into the grass at the side of sidewalk. Wincing, I looked down at my feet. And cringed.

I have an absolutely irrational fear of two things. Two. One is heights. The other is blood.

I saw blood.

I... saw... blood.

And I hate to admit it, but it was only a few microseconds after I comprehended what I was seeing that I started to feel like my whole being was asleep. The stinging prickling sensation you get when lose feeling in a limb started at my feet and washed up over me until it was in my head, causing a ringing noise to start echoing in my ears, and my vision to start blurring a little. I was suddenly deeply and acutely aware of each of my heartbeats. Thud. Ka-thud. Ka-thud...

A few seconds later, my brain came screaming back. I'm still here! I'm still here! it reminded me. I was not sure if I was breathing before, but then I remembered to breathe. And I finally gathered up the courage to look at my wound.

A stick had gotten caught in my shoe. It wasn't a pointy stick, but unfortunately it had positioned itself just right so that it stabbed through the flesh on the underside of my foot. Most of the bottom of my foot is incredibly callused -- I remember when I was little, and it was the middle of summer in Arizona, I ran out to get the mail barefoot. My feet have never been the same. But Murderous Stick had gotten it just right, and jabbed right into the uncallused flesh where the arch is. There were a whole bunch of scratches all over both my feet too. I'm not exactly sure how such extensive damage had been caused by such as innocent-looking stick... but it happened.

Well, I couldn't just sit there helpless on the grass bleeding.

I stood up. Replaced my shoes on my feet, and continued to walk to dance class, but now limping.

Well, I wasn't angry at the stick. I was angry at myself. For not looking where I was going and staying away from the stick. For being such a pansy after it happened... but most of all, for now not being able to dance. Why am I always getting injured, huh? It's so lame! LAME! It means a lot to me to be in good health. Before I got my patriarchal blessing, I was secretly afraid that because of my scoliosis and the surgery I got along with it, and any other medical problems I could potentially inherit, I would be unable to keep myself healthy or that I wouldn't be able to do simple things that other people could do. My patriarchal blessing resolved that for me, and I recited a line from it over and over again as I limped to class, my eyes filing with hot, angry tears.

You will be given the ability to live the Lord's law of health. Ow. You will be given the ability to live the Lord's law of health. Ow. You will be given the ability to live the Lord's law of health. Ow. You will be given the ability to live the Lord's law of health. Gasp. You will be given the ability to live the Lord's law of health. You will be given the ability to live the Lord's law of health. You will be given the ability to live the Lord's law of health. You WILL be given the ability to live the Lord's law of health, even if a stick impales your foot.

Even if a stick impales your foot.

I got to class finally, still chanting in my head that one line. I took off my shoes and looked at them. The insole of my left shoe was now stained with blood. How... pleasant. I signed the roll, and then limped off to the bathroom, where I cleaned it off as best I could. Then I limped back to class. Put on my heels. And hid in a corner, tenderly and slowly practicing the cha cha on my own.

And after about twenty minutes of that... I joined the rest of the class and danced for a bit. I danced cha cha. And it hurt, but I was dancing. I danced waltz. And it hurt, and I was grimacing the whole time, but I was dancing. I danced swing. And it hurt, and I wearing a very forced smile, but I was dancing. I danced foxtrot. And it hurt, and every spin screamed up my leg, but I was dancing. And then...

"All right, West Coast swing!" I don't know West Coast swing! I don't know this! I tried to dance as she taught us a new step. I utterly failed. Between the horrid pain in the bottom of my foot and the frustration of not knowing what was going on...

I hobbled over to the sidelines and planted myself in a chair. I am not going to able to dance any more tonight. And I felt disappointment filling up my insides and making me feel a little nauseous. I tried so hard. I don't want to retake this class.

I must have looked miserable.

"Jennnnnnnaaaaa!!!" I looked up to see Kyle smiling down at me, looking concerned.

"Hi," I said quietly. I kind of liked Kyle. He was always so excited to see me, and I couldn't help but grin back at him every time we danced.

"Are you okay?"

... "No." I proceeded to explain how a stick had attempted to murder me.

"Oh no!" he exclaimed. "Do you need a ride home?"

I considered. A ride would indeed be wonderful. I accepted the offer.

And then the instructor announced, "All right, I've decided we won't test swing until the final. And we won't ever test the foxtrot or the West Coast swing. I'm also going to teach you Viennese waltz tonight. We won't test you on that either." I thought for a moment... and realized suddenly, that I had already learned everything I needed to know for the last test of the term -- the final. I knew cha cha, waltz, and swing. I was fine. I was going to be fine.

I watched until the end of class, and then at the end, Kyle came and half-carried me to his car. He drove me home, and then helped me to my door. And then left. Mmm, I wasn't so upset about that injury now. I wrapped it up in a bandage, and ignored it.

The next day, I hobbled on over to Irish dance. I can do this. I can do this. I know I can. Okay, so I had a hole in my foot. It didn't matter. For Irish, you're supposed to be on your toes the whole time. True, my feet would be flying, but if I did this right, I shouldn't have to worry about hurting it any further. I wouldn't be applying any pressure on my wound...

I slipped on my tap shoes and wiggled my feet. They seemed to be operating all right... I got up. And started to jig.

Shu-ffle, hop, shuffle, hop back, shu-ffle, hop, shuffle, hop back. Lift, back, front, back, front. Kick-your-bum, right, left, STOMP, left. Tip, step, back, tip, step, back. Right, left, dot, hop, step. Shu-ffle, hop, shuffle, hop back. Lift, back, tip, step, back.

And then I repeated on the other side, all on my toes. And then stopped and made sure my foot was okay. I wiggled it. It nearly cooed happily. Okay. This is good. No pain. And I'm dancing. Well, as far as injuries go -- I was lucky. So lucky. I can jig, I can reel. It must have been the luck of the Irish, my classmates joked. And I decided they were right. All is well.

I would just close and leave it at that. But. I know someone will reply back asking to know whatever happened to Michael... Well, the truth is, I don't know. It is entirely possible that he's died between now and the time I said I didn't want to go on a walk with him. Last week, Michael came over nearly everyday and stayed until it was midnight and he had to leave. This week... Nothing. Absolutely nothing. So, I think I did end up winning more than a battle. I may just have won the war. But I feel absolutely horrible, and a little bitter about the whole thing.

Now that he knows I don't like him... it's like he doesn't even think it's worth his time to be my friend. I hate to say it, because I shouldn't care so ridiculously much -- but I do care. It's like there's a false dichotomy he's trying to spell out. Boyfriend or no friend... or in other words, Michael all the time or Michael none of the time. Hm. Given the choice, I'd choose the latter. But it stings because I'd have been perfectly happy with a happy medium -- Hey, Michael? Why can't I just be your friend? Did that ever occur to you? No? Why not? Gaah. It makes me feel so incredibly... disrespected.

Frustrated, but pretty much okay,
Jenna

On Finding A Voice.

The last few days of this week, I have been plagued by a chronic stomachache and a severe lack of motivation. I do believe I am starting to get sick with something, although I hope I don't actually get ill. Thursday was when it hit me really bad.

Dull headache, complaining stomach, and even a little back pain. And the idea of doing homework was just so... unappealing. And the idea of going to class (especially dance) was even less appealing. So I kind of just curled up in a blanket and sat around. Not good, I know.

And then I had the urge to make cookies. I did. Not good, I know.

I didn't actually bake the dough once it was made. I put it in the fridge and let it sit. And then I just randomly made them later when Jackie came home. And ate a lot of the dough. Gaah! Not good, I know.

So now I was feeling worse. And I felt gross. And I needed real food. So I improvised and made onion soup, but I put rice in it because it needed more sustenance. I ate that. And I felt good. Good, I know.

But then Jackie made brownies. Marshmallow brownies. Not good, I know.

The next day I had a little more motivation. I did my homework and went to class. And then came home and felt awful. There was supposed to be a barn dance tonight, I remembered. Ooooh, but dancing sounds very unappealing right now. Moving at all sounds unappealing. Soon people started showing up at my house. And our back door doesn't shut very well, and it often just stays wide open if no one goes over and closes it.

So somehow my place became the meeting place as more and more people starting coming in. Eventually Michael found his way in. I was just sitting on the couch, being anything but the center of attention. Kind of ignoring people. And Michael comes over, and sits on the arm of the couch I was on, and leans over my way. "You going to the dance?"

I sort of mumble, "No, I don't feel well. I don't want to dance."

Rachelle then pipes up from the stairs. "Michael! You coming dancing?"

He answered... in the negative. Dang. Dang. Dang.

But Rachelle somehow still has a voice where I do not. "Why not? Because Jenna's not going?"

In reply, he laughed quietly, but he never actually answered. I groaned. All right, so I feel sick, but not that bad. But Michael doesn't need to know that. I immediately took on my best I-feel-like-crap demeanor and pretty much ignored him until he and everybody else left. After that... I began to realize how bad I really was feeling. Ugh.

I was pretty much moping around for awhile, and then I called my mother. I hadn't really been on the phone very long when I heard a knock on the door. I opened it.

It was Michael. I wanted to scream, Did you not get the message? I don't feel well, and I don't want to do anything tonight. Go away!

Michael said, "We made soup for you since you aren't feeling well. Come eat it."

I blinked. Hm. Do I want to go over there? Hm. He made me soup. Soup does sound good. Hm. Maybe I'll eat it and then come home. Kind of confused, I went over there and was presented... with, well, it wasn't exactly soup. It was more like chicken and dumplings. Still good though. I ate that. And before long I had been dragged into the living room to play video games, and before long a movie was put in... Mr. Bean's Holiday. Michael's friend, Jason, had brought it over. And Jason and his fiancée, Karissa, wanted to watch it. And before I really had realized what was going on, I had been tricked into staying all night.

A note... Michael hates Mr. Bean. He cringed every time something Bean did something stupid... which was often. And, not even five minutes into the movie, Michael's cringes transformed from small cringes into more dramatic reactions... like burying his head in my side. At which point I would attempt to peel him off (I never succeeded).

So, the peel-off method wasn't working. I scootched over. And I was watching him warily through the corner of my eyes with my marching band peripheral vision skills. Okay, now we aren't touching. This is good.

I start paying attention to the movie. I imagine I might have really enjoyed it if it wasn't for -- gyyyaaaaah! In shock, I realize that some time in the last thirty seconds of not really paying attention, he had replaced himself right next to me and somehow he had gotten his hand on my shoulder and he was leaning slightly against me. Oh, no, you don't!

I squirm and scoot over more.

And it happens over and over again. Scootch. Scootch. And then he's really, really close. Scootch, rinse, and repeat. I even tried placing the couch pillows in between us, but I am still mystified at how they ended up in my lap and the Michael ended up where the pillows used to be. Gyaaah! So, that wasn't working. I even tried to physically push him away, but he was so... rock solid that my efforts to push him away were in vain and he didn't budge. He noticed, but instead of taking the hint, I do think he was horribly misinterpreting it as a flirt-back. Gyyaaaahhh... what do I have to do? Scootch, scootch, rinse, repeat. Over and over and over again. By the end of the movie, I was pressed up against the arm of the opposite side of the couch, willing my hips to be skinnier so that I could scoot over more... and yes, Michael was right up against my side.

At this point... Michael was not getting the message. I leapt up and announced, "I'm going home! I... I should rest!"

And I fled into my house and locked the doors, left the lights off, and just hugged myself for comfort in the dark on the couch. Within a few minutes Jackie and Rachelle came home from the dance. "Heeeey!" said Rachelle.

"Hey," I said. After an inquiry into what I had been doing all night, I explained what had happened. I ended by complaining, "And so now my right side is significantly warmer than my left side. He was waaaay close..."

Rachelle gawped at me. And then proceeded to feel the side of my left thigh, and then the side of my right thigh. "This side is warmer!" she laughed.

I nodded miserably. And went to bed feeling horrible.

I didn't see much of Michael at all on Saturday.

But Sunday? Well, I did have to go to church. But I've never been so tempted to just not go. So the whole thing became Operation Avoidance.

I surrounded myself by other girls in sacrament meeting. Phew. Don't have to sit by him at least.

As soon as the "Amen" was said for the closing prayer, I stood up and booked it out of there and hid in the girl's bathroom until it was definitely time for Sunday School. At which point I went to the Fish Class (what we call the Providential Living class), because I was sure he wouldn't go to that one.

Phew. So far so good. But can I make it to Relief Society unscathed? Unknown. Relief Society is in the room right next to Elder's Quorum. It would be tricky business. I carefully went up half of the stairs up to the second floor. Looked up at the top. And, I kid you not, my inside froze. Crap.

Michael is standing post right at the top.

How am I supposed to get past him? Hm. He is more on the right side of the stair... I shall dash up the left side, and... uh... I grab my sacrament meeting program from my scripture bag... and pretend to read it intently as I dash up the stairs, as far away from Michael as I could possibly manage. And there were two people between us. I walked as quickly as I could past him without breaking into a run, my eyes trained on the program in my hand, but my peripheral vision focused solely on my goal... the Relief Society room.

I pass him. He sees me. "Jenna!" he exclaims.

No, no, Michael. I am deaf today. I can't hear you. And somehow, I walk a little faster, still without running. Michael decides I didn't hear his exclamation, and comes after me. No, no, no, no! I am so close to the door! Just several more meters!

In my peripheral I see him dashing towards me. Crap. Oh, but some one stepped in front of him. That may be just enough to allow my escape. I am about to step through the door when --

Bam.

I blink. A fist between me and the door, and a forearm attached to the fist, and biceps attached to that, and shoulder attached to that, and neck... and then Michael's grinning face.

Michael. No. I duck and dash under his arm, into the Relief Society room. Success! I win, I win, I --

Crap. I didn't take into account that Michael, could, if he so wished, enter the Relief Society room. And he did, catching me around the waist. I yelp, and he pulls me close. Craaaaaaaaap. I squirm until I am free, turn around and start towards a seat, but --

"Stop!" I turn and blink at him. He starts singing... "Get your kicks at 366, etc." He had modified the classic song Route 66, and was singing about my apartment. I said nothing until he stopped singing, at which point he looked expectantly at me, and I said, "Uh... clever." And with that I turned around and found a seat at the opposite side of the room, and didn't look in his direction until he had left the room, when I breathed a sigh of relief.

Relief Society passed slowly. I prayed and prayed and prayed that we would get out a minute early so I could escape and run home and lock myself inside. Except it didn't work. Perhaps I wasn't faithful enough, because we were let out a minute late, and I was dashing for the door, when a girl ahead of me opened it and went out. And I saw, waiting by the doorway... Michael. So I steered in Rachelle's direction instead. And we initiated a few long conversations with people.

I kept glancing nervously at the door. He was still there. And then, when Rachelle and I were finished with our conversations, we dashed to the opposite side of the room. There had to be another exit. There just had to be. The unfortunate thing about having church in the testing center is... they kept an awful lot of doors locked. If we had tried to exit any other way, we would have set the alarms off.

Apparently, I am not getting out of this encounter. I turn around and see that Michael, alarmed by his sudden not-being-able-to-see-us-from

-the-doorway, had entered and was walked towards us. I stand behind Rachelle, and hope he'll talk to her instead of me.

And... he does. Yes! As he says something to Rachelle, I dash in front and walk as quickly as I can in the direction of home. Come on, Jenna, you can make it! You can make it! And then... as quickly as I am walking, Michael has caught up and is talking to me. I was unhappy, to say the least, I keep walking quickly. The quicker I walk, the faster I will be home, and the less time I have to spend with Michael.

Once home, I shudder in relief. And I don't have to deal with him again until late that night. Late late. Nearly midnight.

He starts to talk. "So, what are you doing?"

I reveal nothing about what I actually was doing, but I mentioned instead that Rachelle and I had gone to see a friend at the webcam since he lived in California.

Michael gawps, "You are so cool. What are you doing tomorrow?"

Crap! I shall say NO to anything he proposes! ANYTHING!

"Uh... school."

"Oh, me too! What school?"

"Um, linear algebra, chemistry, and Irish dance."

"Wow, you are so accomplished. I just have to write an economics paper and an ethics paper."

"Eew."

A small, very short period of silence. Then, "We should go on a walk tomorrow, Miss Jenna from 366. You know you want to."

...You think I want to? Actually, I don't... "No, not really." Phew. I said no. I said I didn't want to. I said no!

It was almost a victory. Except it didn't seem to occur to Michael that I had said no. "Oh, come on. It will be fun! You know you like walks with me!" he egged, grinning impishly.

I blinked and stared. Did I not just say no, and give my reason as I didn't want to? And what was that? How dare you try to tell me what I should like and what I should want! How dare you keep making decisions for me! How dare you undermine the things I say! How DARE you. In that split second I reflected on how utterly powerless I felt when I was with him, and I almost began to fume. Exactly how explicitly do I have to say no?

I said quietly and coldly, staring as icily as I knew how, "I don't particularly like the phrases, 'You know you want to' or 'You know you like...' That's not very nice. That's not very nice at all."

He laughed smallishly. "Heh. Okay. Bye."

And with that he was abruptly gone. I won that battle, but I'm still not sure if I've won the war or not. We shall see. We shall see.