Fillings

i hate going to the dentist.
there. i said it.
so, i was there this morning for what else but another two baby fillings, and by the time i sat down in the chair, my knuckles were white.
my anxiety was apparently more than obvious as the sweet southern hygenist literally patted my shoulder and rubbed my cheek through the shot. i strangely suddenly wanted her to be my mom.
i stared at the fake cloud inserts in the drop ceiling and tried to make out shapes but all i saw--and heard--was a drill.
they offered me a blanket.
i took it.
they offered me headphones.
i took them.i scanned through stations, trying to zone out the drill and the tools and the trillion cotton wads stretching my mouth twice its size. i tried not to imagine what I looked like to everyone peering down.
something relaxing...something mind-wandering...i passed over hotel california, the boys are back in town, celine dion. until, strangely, i found comfort in some bootie-shaking Kesha song. i closed my eyes and suddenly found peace in choreographing my dance routine for you think you can dance. and i'm not kidding. i planned the whole thing out...and my imaginary self had some crazy moves. like this one. and i'm pretty sure there was one of these. i was good...my form was outstanding...and just as the audience was rising to their feet in my mind, tears in their eyes, feriously clapping and screaming for an encore, the filling was over.
so there. i've discovered what works. who needs laughing gas?