Tuesday, April 28, 2009
This morning I had an appointment at the dentist. It was a follow up to the gum graft I had last year where they took skin (is that what you call it up there?) off the roof of my mouth and grafted it onto the front of my lower teeth to prevent further recession. (Recession? It was an omen!).
I was told that the procedure (did we always call everything a "procedure"? I hear it A LOT these days. Or maybe it is the aging company I now keep?) would just be a "lift." A gum lift, as in face lift. A minor "tug" as if they were yanking up bedding or pulling a table cloth out from under dishes to impress guests. He told me the last two times I was there that this would be quick. "No big deal."
So I pop in to the dentists on my way to the gym for my quickie only to wait 45 minutes. At least the time in the chair would be like having my name signed on a cake and then out the door. Well, he said he would have to shoot me up with Novocaine. What? This was just a quick gum lift. And then the stitches came out and all the tugging and sewing and the time and the two people it took and the me choking on blood and having to spit twice.
This was no quickie.
I couldn't even go to the gym and had to take an ice pack and Advil for the swelling and pain. I felt I should have been entitled to steal away to one of the fine hotels right along on Central Park South to recover like I had my eyes done.
I asked the doc if "the procedure" would take years off my look. He looked at me not like he had heard that joke a thousand times, but more like "What? You're a dude! Get outta here!"