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~ June 30, 2004 - 5:17 p.m. ~
Worst Wednesday Ever

I have always been a very thorough person, firm in my beliefs that if one is going to do something, one must not take half-measures. One must set one�s mind to a task and perform it completely. No half-assing anything for me, no sirree. Which is why when I was eight, I didn�t just break my foot, I crushed every bone from my ankle to my metatarsals, when I went to college, I went year-round, and today when the Fates conspired to ensure that I had a shitty day, by God I did.

The day started badly, in that it started at 8 am on about 4 hours of sleep. The ill-fated reason it started so early? A trip to the dentist. Now, let�s make one thing clear: when it comes to my health, I would rather have my vertebrae re-arranged, my eyes dilated, and get pap smear than go to the fucking dentist. I hate the fucking dentist. My first dentist, Dr. Wilkinson � a butcher whose name I will not deign to disguise � instilled sheer terror into the very marrow of my bones, and whilst subsequent dentists have, in fact, found the virtue of Novocain, Dr. Wilkinson ensured that I will forever be in sheer terror of every dentist I encounter as I can no longer bear the sensation (mainly the sound) of metal being scraped over my teeth. Fingernails on a chalkboard? The sweet music of an angelic choir by comparison.

To make matters worse, this was no ordinary check-up I was in for. I had pain in my back left molar, and there was a dark spot I could on it even without a flashlight, so I knew I was screwed. It was totally I cavity, I just knew it. Sadly, I knew more than was good for me. Not just a cavity, oh no! That would have been too simple for Gina-the-painfully-thorough. Instead, I had a huge area of decay that had penetrated to the root. I was going to need an emergency root canal. Pronto.

Root canal. I think these are two of the most horrifying words in the English language, when linked together. They rank up there with you�re fired, who farted, and, under the wrong circumstances, I�m pregnant. And an emergency root canal is just that much more terrifying. And it had to be an emergency, because the dentist felt that any delay could lead to serious oral infections and possibly the loss of the tooth. He was amazed that, given the severity of the problem, I had gone for so long without seeking dental help. I refrained from mentioning that Dr. Wilkinson had made the notion of drinking bile more appealing that dentistry, and just smiled as he handed me the oral surgeon�s card and told me there�d be an opening at 1:30.

Well, it was already 11 am, and my day was shot to shit. No chance of getting to yoga now before 3 probably. Better eat something while my mouth still works. So I ended up having just enough time to grab lunch with Tim at the diner before racing back uptown to the oral surgeon�s.

The guy seemed nice enough. His office was lovely. It was in the penthouse with a fantastic view of Central Park and a roof-garden. But none of this adequately distracted me from the fact that he was using an enormous drill to grind a hole into the middle of my tooth. Even though I was numbed to the gills, the sound was excruciating. Imagine having those nasty fingernail-on-chalkboard shivers running amok on your spine for two hours while your jaw goes numb from being clamped open and the terrible burning smell of your own powdered molar fills the air. For. Two. Hours. I gotta tell you, friends, it�s a very special feeling.

When I emerged, I was greeted with a motrin the size of a Barbie Ugg boot and a bill that exceeded my monthly rent (why, why, why did I not spring for dental coverage on my insurance?). Also the left side of my face was utterly numb, Tim was at an interview, my mom was in the Bahamas, so there was only one person left to call: Tim�s mom.

�Hi, ish Genuh, an I�m cahllig for schympashee.�

Amazingly, she could understand me pretty well, so we talked (well, she talked, I listened) for an hour while the Novocain slowly began to wear off and my left lower lip swelled to the size of a lemon wedge. I sat there in Central Park poking at my numb chin, wondering if I could scratch it hard enough to bleed without feeling it, and musing as to the possibility of central anesthesia when I got a tattoo, and would that be wussy? (Answer: yes, very.)

Finally, I decided that since Fortune wasn�t smiling on me today, the best course of action would involve chilling in Union Square with some soft-serve ice-cream, diet be damned. The Universe, however, did not agree with this course of action, throwing a barrage of rude children staring in horror at my lip in my path, and some stupid old guy who could not figure out how to swipe his fucking Metrocard. As a fled down the subway station steps around him, my downtown F train was just closing its doors. I threw out my arm to stop them, and the damn things clamped down. Hard.

I tried worming my way through the doors, only to have them open just long enough to close again on more of my body. The train made a little steam spitting noise, like it was leaving the platform, and I was stuck. I made the command decision to worm my way back onto the platform, since that seemed like a safer, but my foot (the bad one, naturally) was wedged really tightly in the door. I inhaled and made one last lunge and detached my whole body from the door, leaving my shoe behind. This caused me to step back onto the platform barefoot, which means that in accordance with the laws of my people (the obsessive compulsives) I must now amputate that foot. I reached down to pull my shoe (one of my favorites) free, thus exposing my thong cleavage to a slew of nasty hooting men behind me, and my tit cleavage to a slew of nasty hooting men on the train. Furious and indignant, I stood on the platform as the doors finally closed and prepared to watch the stupid train take off without me.

Naturally, Fortune decided that I am the perfect Patsy, and opened the doors of the train. Once aboard, the nasty hooting men hooted and stared at my huge lip along with everyone else. I wished that they all thought I�d got in a fight, and seriously considered saying �You should see the other guy� in a vain attempt to get them off my back.

Inside the train, I noticed that I was covered in a nasty, filmy black grease from between the doors, which had made probably permanent marks down the front of my favorite pink camisole, as well as general nastiness all over my bare arms. Faaaaaannnntastic . . .

And since that brings us about up to speed and I�ve pretty much decided that the day can�t get any worse (a sure fire invitation for it to do just that), I�m off for that ice cream now, and to pray that the rest of the day sucks considerably less.


Worst Wednesday Ever - June 30, 2004
Worst Wednesday Ever - June 30, 2004
Theraputic Tofu - June 26, 2004
Quick Note from Vermont - June 17, 2004
No Apologies - May 29, 2004

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