I can't come to work today, I sprained my tooth.

On Monday morning at 8 AM I went for my regularly scheduled dental checkup and cleaning. My thinking is that if you go to the dentist first thing on Monday morning the rest of the week can only get better.  So twice a year, I get to test my premise.  

Frankly, spending the first hour of a work week with two or three relative strangers simultaneously putting both hands up to their elbows into your mouth while wielding sharp instruments gives you a clearer perspective on the problems that may face you at work.

So this past Monday, I marched myself down to my dentist's office, watched the news in his waiting room with the clear understanding that every bad thing the newscasters reported would pale in comparison to the next hour of paid misery.

There are a couple important rules about what takes place in the dentist's office during a checkup.  

First and foremost, admit nothing, and I mean NOTHING!!!  When the dental assistant asks if you've been flossing, the answer is an unequivocal YES.  You don't need to tell her that your flossing regimen began and ended 15 minutes before your appointment.  By the way, the assistant will respond with the same guttural grunt and disbelieving look if you've faithfully flossed 4 times a day since your last appointment or you started the day of your appointment.  

The second question to avoid at all cost is; "Are any of your teeth bothering you?"  Of course they are..... every last one of them.  But if you offer up even a single suspect tooth to examine, they are going to find a use for those sharp instruments they’ve been wielding and more than that tooth is going to be bothering you.  It's sort of like answering the question "Do you mind if I pick that scab?"  Of course I mind!!!  But please go ahead and use that shiny pointy thing in your hand to increase the pain from slightly noticeable to excruciating!!!!!

This fine Monday found me with a conundrum.  My back left lower molar had been bothering me for a couple of months.  It was sensitive to pressure (like chewing) and anything cold could launch me from my chair with the speed and force of a Scud missile.  In order to figure out what was wrong, I was going to have to violate my second rule.

Being a manly man, I decided to "bite the bullet" and admit that the doc should take a look at that puppy and make a decision on what kind of ski boat he wanted to buy next year.  In my mind the admission of a "problem" tooth that happened to be at the farthest from my lips generated a number of scenarios, none of them positive.

First, no matter how bad the problem turned out to be, it was going to be painfully uncomfortable to address since the distance from my lips to that molar was going to require a 30 foot extension ladder to diagnose and make repairs.

Second, it’s a really big tooth, which will require a really big solution.  

A bigger tooth means a bigger crown.  A bigger crown means more dental fixit material, more expensive labor and more helpers to haul out the demolition debris and make the crane lifts to get the new materials in place.  More strangers with their hands in my mouth and a higher pitch whine from the dental drill as it turns the massive molar auger to "prepare the surface" for the new crown.  In other words it had “new ski boat” for the dentist written all over it.

As things turned out, I manned up and told the dental assistant about the molar.  After all, it hurt and the cold sensitivity was having an adverse effect on Ben & Jerry’s 2013 revenue.  As predicted, she dug around a bit, took an extra x-ray and scribbled on the tooth diagram that you can't see from the exam chair unless you’re Linda Blair.  I knew she was making those red marks that meant lifetime employment for the drill operator.

The dentist came in, a little more cheerful than he should have been for a Monday morning.  He greeted me and we talked about the weather while he rolled up the Ski Nautique 200 competition ski boat brochure and put it in his back pocket.  As predicted, he got his pointy hooked dental tools out and poked, prodded and scrapped until he knew exactly where the pain was centered.  He then tuned it in to one or two single motions which made sweat beads pop out on my forehead.  Did I wince?  Did I moan? Did I jump and shout???  I wasn't going to give him the pleasure.  I simply and calmly expressed my pain in succinct and lucid vocabulary as I spit three of his fingers out of my mouth.

One of my favorite quotes, often attributed to Mark Twain, is;  "Most of my worries never happen."  This past Monday was a good day.  The dentist tweaked my existing crown and then proceeded to explain how the tooth was attached by a ligamental (my word) nerve strap, which holds it in place.  He described my problem as a "sprained tooth."  I'm really not kidding.  I'm sure it was layman's terms for some multi syllabic technical dental term to help me understand the cause of my problem.

I half expected him to tell me to wrap it in an Ace bandage and give it a rest.  Like most men my age, I carry a bit of extra weight and I certainly enjoy eating.  But I simply cannot remember an eating related injury.

I calmly left the office, went home and called work.  I explained that I could not work today since I had a sprained tooth.  

Carpe Dentum!!!!