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

Summing Up the Last Few Weeks

Okay, so I've been ridiculously busy. I'm not sure how I got so busy, especially when I have a smaller workload that last semester. Whatever.

I've done way too much homework in the past month, gone on three dates (there will be another tomorrow), cleaned a lot, had some good meals, and ... that's pretty much it. Sad, isn't it?

It has become popular belief (among my roommates at least) that I am way too busy for my own good. And... they're probably right, but I didn't really think there was anything I could do about it. I just kept doing homework... and more homework... and more?

Last Saturday was especially ridiculous, and I suppose I'll tell you what I can remember about it, since it pretty much sums up my current life patterns.

It was bright and sunny when I woke up that morning. And so was I. And I don't know where Ashley was. But it seemed like the opportune moment to tidy up my room. And then, after I had done that, I realized that since it was eight on a Saturday morning, I probably had several hours in the apartment to myself while my other roommates slept. So... I went grocery shopping. I spent all but seventy cents on my meal plan. I proceeded to clean the kitchen.

And then, as I was putting the dishes from the dishwasher away... I realized just how ridiculously unorganized the cupboards were...

I'm not OCD, I promise. But occasionally, when I've had enough sleep and don't have anything particularly stressful occupying my attention, I have little bouts of obsession-compulsion... this was one of those times. Definitely.

Each cupboard I opened revealed a new scene of chaos... and each would summon a shiver down my spine and a twitch in my eye. With the realization the contents of our cupboards were often in plain sight since Jackie has an odd and nasty inability to close cupboard doors once she opens them, I set out to organize them. All of them.

I discovered lots of strange surprises. Dishes that hadn't at all come clean in the dishwasher, but had been put back in the cupboard anyway. Disgustedly, I pulled these out, opened the dishwasher, and put the guilty dishes inside after scrubbing the guck off of them. I left the dishwasher open, ready to receive more offending dishes... but I would later regret this.

I'm not observant enough to know which of my roommates are guilty of all of the offending things that I found in the cupboards... but all these things did was feed the flames of my temporary-OCD-ness. I finally got up to the top shelf of the cupboard above our sink. It held a jumbled mess of what I suspected to be Tupperware.

I pulled up a chair up next to the open dishwasher, right where I could work with whatever happened to be up there. Among the mess, I found tacky, empty plastic containers like you would usually buy at the grocery store, but containing a butter spread or something.

If we were poor and used Tupperware enough that the plastic containers we did own were insufficient for the demands of our apartment's normal usage patterns... I would understand why we would keep them. But honestly... I think we have way too much Tupperware as it is. All these flimsy plastic containers were doing were collecting dust and taking up space. Oh, and provoking a nasty twitch in my right eye.

I made an executive decision to throw them out. Which required getting down off the chair and placing the offenders in the trash can. My arms laden with junk, I successfully turned around while atop the chair. But I lost grip of one the plastic things in my hand... which flew to my left, above the dishwasher.

(The following happened all within two seconds.)

I wasn't thinking. My hand reached out to grab it, and as I caught it, I realized I had just compromised my balance on the chair. Badly. I came crashing down halfway into the dishwasher.

Yelping out in pain, I leapt back up onto the chair, but not at all very gracefully. Instead of resting on the chair as I had hoped to, I realized that I hadn't landed quite as I'd hoped to... and the chair and I fell... the other way.

Crash.

I lay sprawled on the tile, the tacky plastic things crushed and broken (I told you they weren't worth keeping...). The chair creaked angrily, threatening to come apart. I moaned. I swear I must have hit or smashed every square inch of my body.

I now had an instant headache. But strangely, this was the minorest of the many hurts I now noticed. I got up slowly... threw the evil plastic fragments in the trash... and limped to the hallway.

To my surprise, none of my sleeping roommates had woken from the horrid noises I had just made.

I limped to the couch. And collapsed.

Ow. OW. Owwwwwwwww. There wasn't any blood, just a strange stinging sensation all over. My left leg hurt in particular. I think that is what collided most violently with the chair. I lifted up my pant leg... to discover that it was already purpling with what had declared itself a nasty bruise. Ugh. My right knee hurt as well (this was what I think hit the dishwasher first), but it was just pink with irritation. My hands and arms stung with pain from flailing around and unsuccessfully trying to find a handhold. My head had hit something... I think the ground.

Whatever.

At least my apartment was clean.

I spent the next several hours doing homework... namely calculus. And... more calculus. My brain was working so slowly that I'm not sure how I was thinking at all. I trudged through my homework. Problem by problem... Ugh. I was starting to get sooo mad at this homework, because I wasn't getting the right answers immediately.

It soon happens that I am trying out my hand at primal scream therapy. "YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRR

RRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!" I yell angrily at my homework, dissatisfied enormously with it. My roommates peek in to see if I am all right. No. No. Jenna is not all right. Calculus is taking so much longer than it should. Like... I estimated it would take me two hours. I was going on six hours. I hope you understand my frustration. I was MAD at this homework for not cooperating with me. If I had looked in the mirror, I may have seen steam coming out of my ears.

Ding.

'Mid textbook-throw, I look around for the source of this mysterious sound.

Ding. Ding.

Oh! My instant messenger! Someone is talking to me! I consider whether or not to answer it. I was positively fuming and might not be the most pleasant being to talk to at the moment. And it was nine'o'clock at night. Well, I decided I would rather talk to a person than to my calculus homework... I might talk more civilly to someone with feelings.

I look over at my computer screen. Hm, it's Ryan. I determine that I am not going to look at my homework for at least another half-an-hour. I glare at it angrily and I talk to him... but alas! I suppose it is impossible for me to talk to someone without leaking out how I am feeling.

Ryan inquires what I've been doing all day... I reply, Homework. What kind? Calculus. Just calculus? Yes... all day... and I'm not done! And I have more! I've got physics and biology and health and dance and... All day? How long is all day? Six hours on calculus.

Hmm... usually when something takes me all day, it means I need a break, Ryan says.

I don't have time for a break! I'm never going to be done with all this homework! Never! Neeevvvveeerrr!

Ryan obviously disagreed. Wanna go an a walk?

A walk? Hm. Here is where that horrible moment where your brain splits into two distinct voices and they start arguing.

No. Don't do it. You have way too much to do. Way too much.

Aw, but I'm sick and tired of calculus. It isn't even interesting, or fun, or cute, or...

You'll never get done. If you go on a walk, you won't be able to do any more homework tonight, and you'll have to do it on Sunday!

Or... I could do it Monday morning. I can't go on walk then...

NO! You promised yourself you would finish all your homework BEFORE Monday. BEFORE! That means TONIGHT!

But I haven't been on a date with him for... two whole weeks?

YOU'RE TOO BUSY!!!

But I told him no to that date on Thursday and he was really sad...

You were too busy... and you're even busier now... you have two midterms next week.

It's nine, and I've been working allllll day!

At this point, one voice kicks the other's shin.

Shut up. I'm going.

So... I go out into the cold outside. So incredibly cold. It's like... twenty degrees... (warmer than last week, but still). But... I don't feel cold. I imagine if you could see stress, you'd see them radiating off of me like heat waves.

We start walking. "Are you okay?"

"Of course I'm fine, I just have (insert incredibly long list of things to do before Monday here)..." I think I was hyperventilating... or something.

He looked at me sideways-like. "Jenna. I am not a physics assignment."

Ahhh! Physics! Oh no. "Oh no no no no... I have a physics midterm this week. And a physics homework assignment. And a reading assignment..."

"Nope. There is only the sidewalk... and the snow... and you're on a date... and you don't have to worry about anything..."

With that, we started exploring campus. Last time we went on a walk we explored all over the north side of campus, and it had been considerably warmer. We did a lot of random things... crossed the bridge, wandered around the Wilk, found a wall map and made each other find the other's hometowns... rummaged through the recycling receptacles looking for today's comic pages in the newspaper... drew little cartoon men... realized we weren't sure if cotton candy was just sugar or if there were something else in it... invaded a computer lab to research about cotton candy (just sugar and food coloring, apparently... the trick is the machine)... found the barber shop... rode elevators... found the flower shop... and then it was eleven'o'clock. The campus buildings close down at eleven, so we went back outside.

Walking along the sidewalk to the intersection, somehow we got on the subject of jaywalking.

"I jaywalk all the time... but only at like... four in the morning when I'm walking to work, and not a single soul is awake. You know what's fun? Dancing on the Y in the intersection here..."

We had come to the intersection, in the middle of which was a large white painted Y.

"Have you done it before?" he asked.

"Yes." And the light turned green for us to cross.

I started to cross on the crosswalk... but Ryan dashed out to the center of the intersection and started to dance maniacally. There weren't any cars that had a green light... only cars with bewildered drivers stuck at the red light. I stayed on the crosswalk, the whole time laughing at him (I didn't know what else I was supposed to do!). He danced until the light turned yellow, at which point he dashed to the other side of the street, and swung around the light pole, me laughing the whole time.

We started to walk back to our apartments, but then we saw a large icicle. Ryan decided to try and get the icicle down. He jumped up and broke it off, but of course right below the icicle was a sheet of ice. Icicle in hand, his feet went all over the place... but he didn't fall or crack his head open. "Ah! I almost got myself killed!" Hm, that would make twice in one date, within five minutes.

I kept the icicle, and we kept walking. We got to my back door. And we both ignored it. Instead... I decided I wanted to know how deep the snow was. He tried to push me into it, but I ducked in time. However, I did drop the icicle. It didn't break, but he warned that if I did break it, it would hurt his feelings. We went around to the front of my hall, where there was a large patch of snow.

We left Ryan's phone number in big writing there so that when my hallmates came out they could see it. (Unfortunately for Ryan, the whole thing got annihilated by several inches of snow that came down that night.) I left my icicle next to it in the hopes that when the sun hit it, it would reflect the sunlight and attract people's attentions.

Then we went inside... and began looking at the wood grain on people's door. We found one door pattern that looked like the Salt Lake Temple. Then... there was this one door.

"It... looks like bacon."

"Bacon?"

"Yeah... there's the dark meat in the middle, and then the strips of fat on the side, and..."

He was right. That door looked like bacon. And, of course, we had to tell our friends that lived behind that door. We knocked. And, well, I guess since it was nearly midnight, no one inside had been expecting visitors. Patrice eventually opened the door, but we had to wait for awhile. She answered groggily (we feared she had been sleeping, but no... she had been doing homework) and looked at us with a bewildered expression as we blankly informed that her door looked like bacon. She looked quite confused when we bid her adieu.

Well, guys aren't allowed in the girl's hall after midnight on Saturday... and vice versa. So guys were clearing out of the place. We kept talking, and then it was a minute 'till midnight.

"Aren't you going to leave?"

"Nope. I have a whole minute left." And then he hugged me... and he kept checking his watch... and then he hopped outside exactly as the second hand reached midnight. And then I went home, where I barely escaped getting grounded by my roommates, who had been watching chick flicks in my absence.

So this week I've done a whole bunch of homework.

And I have a date tomorrow (with Ryan, yes...). So... good night all.

Mini-Story

Hallelujah!

I am done peer-editing Erik's paper after much procrastination. Erik wasn't there... but Roy and Ian were, and I said goodbye as I happily skipped down the stairs of Shipp Hall, the men's hall in my ward.

I make it safely to the ground floor. This is quite an achievement for me... I'm not much for agility or grace.

I burst out the front door of the Shipp into the cold, but I am elated. And then.

Without any warning whatsoever.

I am soaring through the air, almost gracefully. I mean the only oppositional force acting upon me here was the gravitational force (and perhaps a negligible air resistance), so my center of mass executed a perfect parabola... until my knee hit the concrete, sending me into a spectacular somersault onto the grass, where I land, spread eagle, facing the Shipp.

The grass is quite cool and comfortable. I am slightly bewildered as to how I got there though. I tilt my head up at the Shipp and inspect my surroundings. A teeny little set of three stairs in front of the hall wave at me gleefully. I suppose it's not often such a small fleet of stairs gets a victim. I was thankful that there was only one passersby at the time.

I don't remember my foot hitting the pavement, but now my shoe is sporting a large hole where my big toe should be. My palm is also stinging.

I get up clumsily, and after regaining my balance, I skip the remainder of the way home. Once home, I pull up my pant leg and inspect my knee.

Ooh, a skinned knee!

I clean my wounds with Rachel looking on. We decide my unfortunate fate had something to do with waves of manliness (or perhaps gorgeous) that hit me from behind, causing me to splat on the pavement.

Moral of the story: All those guys in the Shipp should be a little less manly and/or gorgeous for my safety.