Teeth

Next week, I will be going under the knife for the first time ever. I had always hoped that if, in fact, I ever needed surgery, it would be because I obtained a badass injury doing something unbelievably awesome or death defying. But why am I being put to sleep so someone can dig around inside me with a scalpel? My wisdom teeth are not wanted inside my head anymore, apparently. They're being prosecuted for being so wise, I think. It's a conspiracy of some kind.

At any rate, I will be gassed and cranked open at 8 in the morning and then the lovely, soft, dark-pink tissue of my little blabby mouth with be sliced open and my dear, wise, white little friends will be ripped from their 'menacing' places and replaced with stitches and soreness. It's not the surgery itself that I'm worried about: I'm sure the guy tearing my teeth from their place is concerned enough about his own job that he won't do anything too terrible or wrong to me, and that he knows well enough what he's doing. I'm more concerned about the AFTER.

I don't want to waste another week. My spring break was entirely used up by Love According to John and generic Easter brunches and suppers, the week after that was stolen by an untimely bout of H1N1 and now I have a precious few days left before Monday shows up and gives me another forceful reason to sit in bed watching movies day after day.

I just have far too much to do to allow the time.

I have a dress to make, textbooks to complete, friends to attend to, a wedding to giggle about, Dostoyevsky to read, a body to keep swimmer-fit, movies to see at the theater and house cleaning for extra cash.

Apparently my mother will keep me heavily medicated and my head will feel like an inflated balloon. Who knows. It may even prove to be fun.