Warning: I might bite myself.

For some reason, I am afraid of dentists. I don’t like people coming at me with sharp tools. I don’t like the sound of the drill. I don’t like drooling and needing to swallow and being totally dependent on someone to stick a tube in my mouth to suck up my spit. I don’t like the splatter on my face when the dentist is working.

I had a cavity filled today and I am proud of myself for sticking it out. Chin up, eyes closed tight, jaw as relaxed as possible.

My face is numb and so is my tongue. That made spitting into the sink post-filling awkward. I tried to spit about five times while one of the assistants stood and watched. I kept thinking, “Why is she WATCHING me? Why doesn’t she just TURN AROUND?”

Finally, I just had to reach for a tissue and wipe my face off. The humility of it all.

Leaving the office, I texted a friend that I felt like I had down syndrome. I can’t talk properly and people smile at me in that condescending too-kind sort of way. Like they think I’m slow. Is this kind of like that experiment that they do on Dateline from time to time where skinny people put on costumes so that they know how fat people feel like? Anyway, I am sure my afternoon meetings are going to be fantastic. People will wonder who hired the me, that my company must just be filling their retard quota for 2008. I am sure I'll be poised and professional, as I randomly grope my face in hopes of catching strands of drool.

And my parents just called to talk Thanksgiving Turkey Strategy with me. I think this says it all:

Dad: Sweetheart, be careful eating lunch.

Me: Okay, Dad.

Dad: You really do have to be careful. You got to be careful about biting yourself.

Me: Yeah, Dad.

Dad: And you have to be careful about choking.

Me: Okay.

Pause.

Laughter.