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