So there I was, sprawled out, head down, feet up, mouth open, with all kinds of dentistry equipment sticking out of my mouth. I have had enough work done on my teeth in the last five years that I have a running gag with the dental staff. They said that I’ve qualified for a frequent flier program of sorts.
Gee thanks. Wish that actually translated into a free crown or two.
Nitrous oxide, however, makes all things tolerable in the dentist’s chair. Not only tolerable, but even mildly amusing. I was trying to hum “Yellow Submarine” around at least a pound of gauze and another two pounds of hardware. I love nitrous.
The dentist was called away mid-procedure, so I was left alone for a few minutes blissfully babbling and inhaling deeply.
In my warm fuzzy little drug induced cloud, two large red objects swam in and out of view, capturing my attention. Well, good golly. They were shoes. MY shoes. I had never noticed before how attractive they were, even if they were a dainty size eleven. (I am not kidding—size eleven. I have some serious real estate attached to the end of my legs). Dang, I thought. I have great taste in shoes.
When Dr. E. returned, I was engrossed in examining every detail of those shoes. Red canvas. White stitching. Elastic curly laces. Who knew they were so interesting??
As Dr. E. returned to my chair, I shoved one foot near his face and declared, “Would you just LOOK at these shoes? These are great shoes. Wonderful shoes. They’re my very luckiest shoes!”
Well, that’s what I said. Actually, what came out of my mouth around all the equipment probably sounded like “wffwwuuuulOOOOOOkshOOOz!!!”
Dr. E. deftly reached past the floating size elevens and turned down the nitrous. Rats.
He still asks me where my lucky shoes are each time I visit.