I was assaulted.
This is a very difficult thing for me to talk about. I may even need some counseling when it's all said and done.
It involves my teeth. My teeth are kind of like a house that has been cheaply remodeled. A cheaply remodeled house shows really well. Everything is freshly painted, new and clean. However, once the house begins being lived in, the paint chips easily, the carpet wears quickly and shoddy repair jobs show begin to show themselves.
My teeth are nice and straight. My bite is perfect. And, for the most part, my teeth are pretty white. But, it's all a facade. I had many cavities when I was younger and the fillings were huge. I have had at least 8 teeth pulled to make room for other teeth. I had an expander to make my palate bigger. I've had braces. I've had root canals. I have a bridge and 5 crowns and I am currently waiting on my 6th crown.
Because my fillings from my younger years we so big, my molars have begun to fracture.
Therefore, every once in awhile, I'll be eating something and then begin to chew part of a tooth.
Oh, it's lovely!
I am especially excited when part of the root is exposed and I find myself looking for a cement wall to bang my head against.... because that would feel better!
Clearly, I have not had the best of luck with my pearly whites. And, you know what, that's bad. I have spent way too much time in that dental chair. I have had too many shots of novacaine and I have spent way too much money on this mouth of mine.
Because of that, the last thing I should have to worry about is being assaulted while I am there. And, the last two times, I consider myself to have been violently assaulted.
The dental hygienist who assists at the end of the crown procedure is busty to say the least. I mean, her and Dolly Parton... well, they have a lot in common. But, that's no excuse. There has got to be a better approach to the fitting of my crown than having to sit there with this ladies breast pushed against the side of my head/temple of my face.
I'm pretty sure I turn about 27 different kinds of red because she's always asking, "Are you ok?"
How in the world do I answer that?
Because I want to yell, "No. As a matter of fact, I am not ok!!!!" It's never going to be ok with me to have your boob resting on my head!! You need a reduction or a different approach a different angle or better yet... YOU NEED A NEW JOB!!!"
Instead, I appear nice and calm. And red. I think she constantly thinks I am about to pass out and I probably am. I think I hold my breath. I think... that... somehow holding my breath makes it all better. It'll make the boob go away.
The moral of the story is this: should you ever hear me screaming at a boob, in the middle of the night, in my sleep, you will know why. And, now because you know about it, you won't think less of me.