Brush Your Teeth

I spent the afternoon yesterday at the dentist, which is pretty low on my list of ways to spend my time. It lies somewhere between having the stomach flu and watching The Biggest Loser.

The guy is getting ready to shoot me up with whatever it is that they use to numb your mouth with now, and there’s this horrible pop music loop playing in the background that’s at a level of volume that’s just above what you could possibly ignore. My dentist has his hands shoved into my mouth and he’s humming along with Lou Rawls, which just annoys me even more. Once I can speak, I say, “Dude. I am definitely not gonna miss your lovin. Let’s just get this over with so I can get out of this chair.”

I have this vague memory of my dad telling me he had his first heart attack in his thirties while he was in the dentist’s chair, so my heart is thumping in my chest the whole time I’m there. I tried to think of other things. I failed.

Eight hours later my face was still mostly numb.

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