I woke up Sunday morning knowing I undoubtedly needed a root canal.
I knew this because a) my tooth was in screaming pain and b) every time something goes down in my mouth, it goes down big. I have countless fillings, a permanent retainer glued behind my front teeth, a pair of caps, and a ten-year-old bridge—only slightly younger than the original bridge I had installed ten and a half years ago.
So. I woke up with this root canal feeling on Sunday and I made a dentist appointment for Wednesday. Leading up to my dentist appointment I alternated between being extremely cranky that I had to go to the dentist to have my sore tooth poked and being hands-to-heaven thankful that the minute I get a sore tooth I can go to a dentist and get it fixed. With anesthesia. And maybe laughing gas. I really am thankful.
Still, as I lay there in the Chair of Pain I began to realized why I’ve never felt all that comfortable around dentists. A person whose chooses a career that routinely involves ripping people’s teeth out of their heads doesn’t really seem like the kind of person whose fingers I would like prodding around my own mouth.
As I’m thinking this, the dentist comes in and asks me where it hurts, and like my big brother would have done 30 years ago, he goes *poke poke poke* right where it hurts the most.
“Does it hurt now?”
*TAP TAP TAP*
“How about now?”
Unfortunately, the word “uncle” doesn’t hold any sway in the dentists’ office.
The good news is that I most likely do not need a root canal after all. I’ve simply joined the ranks of the other tooth grinders out there, gnashing my teeth in my sleep all night. Ironically, I spend very little of my night sleeping, as I am a horrible insomniac.
I’m such an overachiever.
WHAT’S COOKIN’ 2NITE:
I dunno…what are you cooking tonight?