Frustrations and Celebrations.

Celebrate -- I am completely finished with my dance class. This is the third time I've taken this particular course -- and I finally have a nice shiny Silver American dance medal to add to my collection.

However, this has also given me much to be frustrated about. See, the second time I took this class, all my test scores were consistently two or three points higher than the scores I've gotten the third time around. You see my frustration then; tests are basically graded on how good you actually are, and since the scores are lower, that would indicate I've gotten worse. In my mind, this is preposterous. I've been actively engaged in every dance class -- I mean, my mind was constantly working on something. I'd work on technique like no one else I knew in a silver level class. And yet my test grades never were that great... and the grader's comments were always something along the lines of, "You look weak." Or, "You look like you're going to pass out! Have more confidence in yourself!"

The real stinger was yesterday -- the medals exams. I didn't feel weak, and heaven knows I don't freak out for tests -- I'm always calm and confident. I watched the people who had tested before me as they got their results back. Nearly everyone had certificates with official-looking gold stickers signifying "honors." And so, I fully expected my results to come out with an honors sticker on it as well. I mean, I work harder at this than most of the students in my class... and one of my friends who forgot the steps and just stopped dancing during the exam to due extreme flusterfication got the honors sticker.

So, imagine my horror when mine comes out -- stickerless and unglorified. It was like a punch in the face. And the comments... yes, just as usual, I look weak and I don't look confident. However, there weren't any comments about bad technique. They said I had really good technique, but I needed more energy, confidence, and strength. Um -- do I really look that bad? How was my dancing scored lower than the person who I saw (and I know the judge saw) biffed it on the dance floor? I followed every single step, I know my footwork was pretty darned good, and my posture is impeccable. All the men in my class say I'm fun to dance with and easy to lead... I've spent fourteen months working on this dance curriculum and I score worse than my classmates who only spent two months on the same stuff! I don't understand...

Hurt and stung, the reactions of some my classmates to their scores only seemed to make it hurt worse. One girl whose scores were higher than mine was exuding vibes of extreme discontent and displeasure because she didn't get high honors -- only honors. Well, I know she deserved the scores she got. And another girl -- well, her scores were just barely below mine. She burst into tears when she got her scores back.

I finally snuck out of class early because I was so discouraged. I stuck my shiny silver medal onto my backpack next to my two bronze ones and walked home in the thunderstorm. If I ever passed anyone, I made sure my umbrella was in the way of my face -- I didn't want anyone to see me. I felt awful. The dominant thought in my head was just this -- if I work that hard at dancing, and I'm still not doing well, I must not be meant for dancing. Which is a shame... I love to dance. But apparently, I just can't be a good dancer... When I got home, I wanted nothing more than to just curl up and sleep it off.

However, this was obviously not meant to be.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

I look through the eyehole -- home teachers? What are they doing here? I don't want to see them. It would basically just be, "Ooh, you look awful. How can we help you?" I don't know. I'm just discouraged, and I want to be left alone. I ignore them, and eventually they assume no one is home and leave.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

One of my friends. I ignore them too.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

Oh dang. Someone else who loves me. Ignore.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

A fourth set of visitors? ...Three people who love me? At this point, I just shake my head, look up at the ceiling in submission and accept that tonight is not the night I get to spend alone sulking. I open the door. Carlos, Kjirstin, and Ashley's reaction to seeing me -- well, not encouraging in the slightest. Their eyes widened and instead of a greeting, Kjirstin asks, "Are you okay?"

I just shake my head serenely.

Well -- they abducted me, made me dinner, and sat me down and watched a movie with me. Coincidentally -- the movie they picked? Take the Lead. A ballroom dance movie. I just groaned inside. But you know what? There was actually a short scene in that movie that made me feel a little better. There was a girl who wasn't very good at dancing -- and finally, frustrated and discouraged, she exclaimed to her instructor, "I guess I'm just not meant to dance." The instructor asks, "Well, do you like to dance?" She says, "Well, yeah..." And the wise reply is: "Then you are meant to dance."

[This seems to be a recurring motif -- every time I get discouraged with dancing, it seems I am forbidden from giving up and God finds some way to tell me to keep going. Every single time. Every time I think I'm wasting my time, it seems like heaven's response is to encourage me to spend more time and effort on it. And, well, I am still dancing. Although, I cannot take any dance classes this summer term, I will be attending social dance club every week -- and then, in addition to that, I seem to have moved into a ward densely populated with ballroom dancers, evidenced by the popularity of a weekly ward ballroom dance night. Strange, is it not?]

Anyway, after the movie was over, I went home -- but I couldn't just go to bed. Comments on my weak dancing kept running through my head. Finally, I thought, well, am I really weak? I don't know. How can I tell how weak I am exactly?

An idea did indeed come to me. I wanted to see how many push-ups I could do.

So I got down on the ground, and settled down on my knees, and then lowered down into a push-up -- and to my shock, I could not push myself back up. No! I refused to fall though. I breathed as best as I knew how... okay, Jenna, push yourself up! And yet I could not move. As usual, I was being stubborn, so I refused to just fall down. So I just held it, exerting all my mind and energy into pushing myself back up. But no, I was motionless -- at least until I started to shake violently. At this point, all my obstinance was swallowed up in shock from the realization that I, indeed, was so weak that I could not even do a single pushup.

And I fell. And for the first time all night, I burst into tears and sobbed. All along, the dance teachers saw what I couldn't -- that my strength is pretty much nonexistent.

I finally realized that although I've been feeling wondrous, splendid, and just really good in general -- I'm not healthy. I've just fooled myself into thinking that I'm doing fine because well -- my point of reference is how awful I felt when I ended up in the emergency room that one time... and when I couldn't walk up to my apartment without help... and when the simple task of pouring a bowl of cereal sapped all my energy. Of course, if I'm comparing how I feel now to how I felt then, I'd say, Wow! I'm doing just great!

And yet, in reality, I have a long way to go until I am fully recovered. That's the theory of relativity for you. Blegh.

In other news --

I only have finals left in chemistry and my Pearl of Great Price class. My last chemistry midterm ended up being a 97% (whoot!) and my eight-page religion research paper was a 98% (double whoot!). Academically, I seem to be doing well, to say the least. I am not concerned about my finals in the slightest. I have no reason to fear either of them -- I already have most of the term's material memorized and down pat.

As far as the bread goes...

I figured it out.

I'm allergic to yeast. Plain old bread makes me sick. Rice bread with yeast makes me sick. Vegemite (basically just yeast extract) makes me sick. Grapes (which have yeast in their skins) make me sick. White flour (which has B vitamins derived from yeast added) makes me sick. And sugary stuff, including some chocolate bars, only makes it worse because yeast grows off of sugar. We have a winner. Yeast is the culprit methinks.

Also supporting this theory, I don't get sick when I eat Cream of Wheat or whole wheat tortillas, so it's not the wheat itself. And it isn't the gluten -- barley also has gluten, and barley doesn't make me sick.

So... I can have pancakes still! And pie (oh, sweet relief)! And banana bread! YAY!!! Oh, life is okay, methinks.

And yet... bread, my number one favorite food in the world, is off limits. And grapes, which come in at about number ten on my favorite foods list, are also off limits. I'm not really all that disappointed about having to avoid Vegemite, though... the best description of the flavor of Vegemite I've ever heard was from Ryan Strong: it's like breaking open a black ink pen and then spreading the ink all over toast. Mmmm. Pen ink. Nasty, nasty pen ink.

So... 'tis the middle of June.

Which means little brother Clifton has been out for over a year! Bwee! I can start counting down now!!! Not that I have started to count down... but it seems now that the option is open for me to do so should I feel the urge. :) Strange. (I don't like counting down until it's been over half-way. It seems just rather pointless until then.)

Mmm... some of you have asked how my missionary friends have been doing. They've been doing well, as far as I can tell. It always seems to me that when I hear from them, they don't really say much about about what's going on with them though. They usually just reply to letters I've written. Lately, the primary message I've been getting from them is concern for my wellbeing because as far as they've been able to tell, I've been sick for a long, long time. And yeah. I kind of have to just laugh to myself, because it's true.

Well, I'd just like to close with this statement:
I just did a pushup. :D

Love, Jenna