I am getting ready to feel really, really sorry for myself. I realize that this is a self fulfilling prophecy, and I'm very good at that. Over and over I prove to myself that I was right to worry about something. This one's a no-brainer. I'm going to the dentist today.
I had a perfect mouth for almost thirty years. My permanent teeth had no fillings. The problem is, to keep perfect teeth, you do need to go to the dentist on a regular basis...and every five years or so is not regular! It wasn't my intention to not see the dentist. It's not my favourite place to go but I wasn't phobic about it or anything. (The anxiety disorder was brewing but not yet matured.) It's just that when Mr Brilliant and I got married, we were, how should I put this, we were friggin broke. Strapped. Poverty stricken. Grocery challenged.
We started off young and empty pocketed, and worse, both air headed artsy types who never thought about practical things like dental insurance. It's great to be Canadian and go to the doctor without paying for it on the spot. But you still have to pay for dental, and if your employer doesn't pay benefits, too bad. As far as I know, most of the music biz is self employed. No benefits. Unless you count free food at record release parties.
So he was always at work and not always making money, and I went through two pregnancies without getting my teeth checked. So far so good. Got away with it. Finally got a checkup and a nasty cleaning, still ok. Five more years went by; the kids got checked but we parents didn't. Last year, not so good. Two cavities. No more perfect teeth.
Could be worse. Always could be worse. I could still be as broke as I was two years ago, and not be able to get my teeth fixed. Or have to beg parents for help. Or just be forced to let them rot. I really am grateful that things are going better for us, and really, I've never had anything to bitch about. This is Canada. How many countries all over the world have less than any of us here?
Regardless, I'm going to have a needle stuck in my gums, and have my teeth drilled. Drilled. Drilled! In my teeth! I have planned nothing else for the rest of the afternoon. I'll be on the couch, downstairs, watching Don Juan De Marco and wishing I could have Marlon Brando for a psychiatrist instead of the jerk I'm seeing. I'll be full of ibuprofen. I'll be simmering the chicken noodle soup later on.
I believe that when you're feeling really crappy it sucks to be told to cheer up. Sometimes, after you've counted your blessings, it's good to wallow. If you're reading this and you'd like to indulge in a little pity, go ahead. Let's commiserate. Tell me how crappy things are for you and we can feel better about feeling crappy together.