Signs you probably should have gone to the dentist sometime between the summer you turned 16 and last Friday:
1. When the Dental Hygienist returns with your X-Ray results, she gives you an incredulous stare, and, straining to maintain her professional composure, asks “So you’re sure you’re not in unbearable pain right now?”
2. The Dentist comes in a few minutes later: same look, same strain, same question.
3. When you shrug and say, “Eh. It comes and it goes,” they share an intense, meaningful glance. Neither is able to make eye contact with you for the rest of the exam.
Signs that, no matter how many trappings of adult life you try to smother it under, your essential nature will forever be disgustingly infantile:
1. The dentist, clearly puzzled at how such a good set of teeth could have fallen into such shocking disrepair, suggests excessive sugar consumption as a cause, and asks you if you drink a lot of beer. You are too embarrassed to tell him that your moderate alcohol consumption is dwarfed by your epic Skittle consumption.
2. Upon exiting the dentist with a $1000 dollar root canal quote and what should be some fresh wisdom from cruel experience, you become immediately excited when it dawns on you that the Fred Meyer where the dentist has instructed you to go to pick up some fluoride rinse for your rotting molars also sells those awesome sour balls that the Jelly Belly people make.
Yeah. So my mouth is basically a calcium compost site at this point. That’s the bad news.
The good news is my shiny new Vicodin prescription. When I wake up in the middle of the night with a stinging lower jaw now, I can pop a pill and be back to sleep in less than 20 minutes. It is amazing.
I can easily understand how people get addicted to painkillers. There is this perfect moment, about 5-10 minutes after you down that little white pill, where you realize the pain has subsided, and then you’re completely warm and content and ready to fall into the deepest, most pleasant sleep of your life. If I’m going to go down that road, though, I sort of want it to be on Klonopin. That’s what Stevie Nicks went to rehab for, and I would like to pay homage.
Signs that you’re probably not going to be enjoying a chemical dependency anytime soon:
1. Um…were you paying attention? That root canal is going to cost me a full fucking Grand. I’m not going to be eating anytime soon, let alone ordering mother’s little helper off the goddamn internet from some fake-ass “100% legal” pharmacy in Mexico.
2. I hate you, teeth. (I’m gnawing on a Blow Pop as I type this, by the way).
My mom’s getting in on Friday. It’s the first time she’ll have been on a plane since I was born. It should be a pretty nice time. I’m taking her to Cannon Beach, natch. I feel like the most impressive thing about Oregon is a giant black rock on the beach, mostly because they don’t have those in Florida.