Pride Sockets

I got my wisdom teeth out last week. In the beginning, the entire experience was even better than the first, which I only recently stopped raving about.

• I got the nausea, pain medication, and strict liquid diet that made my sister's well-maintained high school eating disorder look like an Asian hot dog eating contest.
• An ex-lover of mine dropped off a TV, a Netflix account, and one more denial to my offer for marriage. But are you sure you're sure? Either way my entertainment was set, and the amount of Jell-O I planned to put away would have turned Bill Cosby's urine lime-flavored.

Internally I started to scoff at every story I had heard thus far about the "nightmare" of adult wisdom teeth recovery. This is the best! Again! I started getting cocky about my graceful recovery. I was too busy praising my doctor (and myself) when he called for what a good team we make, that I didn't listen to any advice he had to give. Plus, at one point Jane told me I was a champion, which carried my kid sister ego all the way through a couple of straws and up to last night when I woke up with a pain shooting down my right jaw.

So I'm trying to clear the air publicly to fight off whatever pounding I feel beneath my gums right now. It could be a blood clot. But I think it's the sting of pride.

I blame no one for this but myself,* and I swear on every pudding cup in my fridge I will have more sympathy for the next wisdom tooth patient who shares their "horror story," just as long as I wake up in the morning the champion Jane thought I was on Thursday.

*Except for the "dental hygienist" soliciting her advice at a party I prematurely attended night of my surgery. No, Popsicles aren't fine, and you're bad at your job. I respect you, but I also blame you a little.