That’s it, I’m not going!


 

I am getting my wisdom teeth taken out at the beginning of March, and I’m scared stiff. Having been through two sets of labours, I feel fully qualified to tell you that I am far more terrified of having my teeth removed than pushing a baby out. My brain has gone into overdrive.

“Will I wake up in the middle of it?”

“What if I don’t wake up ever?”

“What if they take the wrong ones?”

“What if they take them all?”

“What if they decide to remove my brain too??? I need my brain! They can’t have it! How dare they think they can do that?? That’s it! I’m not going!”

And once I convince my brain that it can relax about remaining in my dome, then there’s all the horror stories floating around out there. There’s horror stories for birth as well, but for some reason, they seem less daunting. Unfortunately, as my husband noted, since wisdom teeth are not gender specific, I will probably find a multitude more opinions for just how awful they can be.

“I woke up in the middle of it.”

“They did a hack job.”

“I was sore for a month.”

“They nicked a nerve.”

“The painkillers didn’t work.”

“I looked like a chipmunk.”

To which my brain goes to the previous tirade, except instead of getting a lobotomy by accident..

“What if the swelling never goes away? What if my cheeks stay puffy forever? What if I’m stuck eating smoothies for the rest of my life? What if I can never use a straw again? I like smoothies but I don’t want to eat them forever and if I can’t use a straw, what’s the point of life, because I need straws, I love straws, they’re the be all and end all of my enjoyment and darned if I am never going to eat a steak ever again to say nothing of turkey dinner and pizza ooooo pizza I don’t know if I can do it, that’s it. I’m NOT GOING!”

Another reason to conclude that labour wasn’t as scary. So far, worst case scenario is that I will be lobotomized and straw deprived.

And then there’s the matter of just how nicely settled my training schedule is becoming for my next 10k. At least with labour I wasn’t assuming that I could go for a 10k run after hanging upside down on a pole after a week. And the mere thought of being upside right for a WHOLE WEEK just seems… well…

“What if I never get on a pole again? What if I lose all my muscle mass and turn into a noodle. I can’t run if I’m a noodle. I want to run. What if it takes a whole decade to get back in shape? What if all the smoothies make it impossible for me to have any substance? What if I turn into a smoothie? I can’t run if I’m a liquid. Furthermore, if I’m a liquid, then I can dissolve when it rains, which means I can’t run for like 12 months of the year here. I don’t want to dissolve. There wouldn’t be any of me left. That’s worse than being lobotomized. That’s it! I’M NOT GOING!

Way.

Way.

Way worse than labour. Now the worst case scenario is being lobotomized, straw deprived, and then dissolved to be eaten by fish.

Totally not going.

Then again, the alternatives may just be more terrifying than being lobotomized, straw deprived, and fish food.

Ok. I’ll go. But I’m not going to like it.

Better have a steak the week before. Just in case.

The Handler.

 

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