The Soundtrack of My Childhood

This morning as I sat in the dentist chair while the doctor fisted my mouth with a drill I was taken back to childhood. The heinous humming of a dental drill is the soundtrack of my youth. I stared at the tiled ceiling and began making patterns and pictures with the odd markings on the ceiling just like I used to do when I was eight years old sitting through one root canal after the other. It's how I "went away." Just a coping mechanism, something a little kid learns to do when they're being abused. I guess some might argue my lengthy history with the dentist is partially my fault. But how is an 8 year old supposed to realize it's not okay to sleep with a bag of old Halloween candy under their pillow every night of the year? I couldn't trust my brother with it anywhere else. So yeah, it was pretty convenient to suck on a Baby Bottle Pop as I rocked myself to sleep. 

But today's visit wasn't because of candy. I don't think... Last night as I munched on half popped popcorn kernels I accidentally popped my crown out. Boom, I just used the word "pop" three times in one sentence. Walking around Norfolk without a front tooth was fine on occasion (like when I went bowling or to eat at the Granery) but I just didn't think it would be as amusing in downtown Chicago so I made an appointment to get it fixed ASAP. It was a rough morning to say the least. The dentist scraped, drilled, picked, and poked for about forty minutes as drool and blood ran down my chin like Carrie's prom night, to say the most. I took a pic of myself looking like a big city hillbilly before my tooth was restored, but I'm not secure enough to post it. I just don't think people would look at me the same after seeing me in such a vulnerable position. 

And speaking of vulnerable positions, don't get me started on riding the train as of late. Ever sat facing someone's ass? Or had a stomach so close to your face you can actually smell the Chicago deep dish from last night swimming around inside? Of course this is all pretending you actually get a seat, which I'm yet to do.  Gross, I know. But I'm just trying to paint you a picture of what my morning commute entails everyday. I can't wait to take a train to work, I used to think. I'll browse a magazine, read a book, knit a sweater, oh the luxury of not having to drive. What a naive little country girl I was. You can't read on a morning train, you can barely breath without getting a dirty glance shot your way.

 I have more empathy for cattle than ever before. Riding the train in the morning is pure misery. People are literally jammed packed into every single nook and cranny, keeping their eyes fixed on the ground like we're all just waiting for the moment the train is going to come to a sudden stop and a herd of German  Sheppards will flood inside and we're going to be stripped of our clothes and branded with a number on the wrist. It's pretty intense. No one talks or even makes eye contact. When did we stop talking is what I wonder? If it were a train full of school children there would be an abundance of chatter, regardless of if they knew each other. They'd be telling each other about their day ahead, where they got their bookbag, what happened on TV the night before, anything just to talk. We were all those children once, so when did the chatter stop? Probably when we started cold calling.

TGIF. My spirits are low today. I need this weekend like a fat kid needs a talk from Michelle Obama to instruct them on the dangers on childhood obesity. Childhood obesity. Ha. When I was growing up we just called it the funny kid in class.