Tuesday, August 18, 2015

In which they fill the canals of the roots.

I have forced myself to attend my scheduled root canal.

Taking one look at my terrified face, the dental assistant immediately gives me sunglasses and headphones, and starts the laughing gas via a bizarre face mask that looks like the future.

I resemble a deer in headlights.

Except that I am not delicate, a quadruped, or fawn-colored. Actually at this point, my face might be fawn-colored. I check for hooves.

Styled like Tom Hardy in Batman, I switch through the dreadful music options as the endodontist (who, I calculated, is getting paid more than $800 per hour for all this fun) starts the numbing process. Peculiarly, one option is a calypso station. I was not aware that anyone wanted to hear all calypso all the time. But it beats out soft jazz and mediocre classical. A few songs in, the Cure's "Close to Me" starts playing. I love this song, but I was not aware it was calypso. God bless algorithms.

I have had a lot of laughing gas at this point, in case you hadn't noticed. The doctor returns to begin the procedure.

"How are you doing?" he asks.

"Fine!" I say.*

He performs the root canal.

They slow down the gas as he finishes. Life seems bleak.

I stumble out of the office, somehow grateful to have spent half a month's salary to have my head battered. The fact that he successfully numbed me made it all worth it. In the past, midway through drilling, a different dentist hit a nerve that was not numbed. My expectations have been low thenceforth. My brother pointed out that while he would hate dental school, he would have to work exactly one day per year to earn what he currently earns as a professor. "And I would have all year to prepare for that day!"

When I arrive at work, my boss takes one look at me and sends me home. Was it the drooling or the fact that I'm listing left?

*If by fine, you mean envisioning a series of goats dancing like the Rockettes.

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