I started off my day at the dentist. My recent crown, the first-ever dental issue of any kind that I’ve endured, was being quirky. It was as though my previously cracked-by-an-almond tooth would’ve been preferable to the “fix,” which in reality hadn’t fixed anything.
Scrambled eggs hurt it. Yogurt hurts it. Water hurts it.
“I’m just wondering if this is normal,” I said to my dentist. His bedside manner seemed off, for some reason.
“Well,” he said, “it could be that you need a root canal.”
I freaked. To go from having nary a cavity to hearing the words “root canal” in reference to my mouth was not the makings of a good morning. “If it gets worse,” he said, “just let me know. I’ll refer you, because I don’t do them here.”
“What do you mean by worse? What constitutes ‘worse’?” I asked. I had no point of reference for this stuff, and he should’ve known that. After all, I’d been going to the guy practically since I was in the womb.
He said that if it kept me up at night, I’d likely need one. I asked how long I’d need to wait before it might, in fact, “keep me up at night,” and he became cranky.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Well, what would you do?” I asked him.
“I’d have a root canal.”
Really? Just like that? Seems hasty, if you ask me. I was ready to snatch my decades-long file from the lady at the front desk and find a new dentist pronto, but motored into work instead — venting on the phone the whole way.
On my way down Beach Boulevard, I passed an old lady going 20 mph — when the speed limit along that stretch was 45. I went around her, and she practically took a nap on her horn. She didn’t like being passed, apparently, or felt that I was a young whippersnapper who was whippersnappering her way a bit too speedily down a main thoroughfare. Her horn, long and steady, blared at me. I waved as I went around. I’m not sure why.
When I arrived at our office complex’s parking deck, I got on at five and took the elevator down; another woman got on at three. In a 5′ x 6′ elevator, the woman — a heavy breather — entered, stood approximately 2.5 inches from me, and didn’t move an inch. I took the passive aggressive I’m-going-to-look-at-you-out-of-the-corner-of-my-eye-while-I-slooooooowly-scoot-away-from-you-and-stand-at-a-normal-distance approach. She wasn’t amused.
She exited the elevator first, then walked i n c r e d i b l y s l o w l y once she was on the main walkway. I went around her, and she sped up.
Really, what’s with people? Why such a funky Thursday?
I have no idea. All I keep going back to is that perhaps everything saved me from something. Maybe my dentist’s strangeness and my last-minute appointment kept me from being in the middle of an accident — maybe even the one that I saw on my way to work. Maybe the old lady on Beach Boulevard was keeping me at a safe distance from something that might’ve happened just ahead. Perhaps the creep-tastic woman on the elevator had gotten my radar up, and I was on a higher alert for strangers’ shenanigans than I would’ve been had she not been in my personal space.
Whatever the reason — even if it was all just fodder for Thanky — I am thankful for everything. At the very least, it has provided a good laugh in hindsight.