So there I am, shaking and terrified. Fumbling with my iPod, which is some kind of crappy attempt to not hear the work going on inside my own mouth, and suddenly the dental assistant scoots her chair in front of me and looks me straight in the eyes.
Ummm...thanks? It's 9:00 am, and I'm almost in tears waiting for you and your masochist doctor to put me into more pain than my mouth has ever been in, I look like crap, am not wearing makeup, and you want to talk about my shoes.
That would happen to me.
Forty-five minutes later I walked out of the office, feeling my jaw steadily swelling, and fearing the pain that would smack me in the face the second my Novocaine wore off. My husband stood up when he saw me walk into the waiting room and gave me a tentative smile.
"How'd it go?" he asked.
"The assistant liked my shoes," I said and started towards the car.
I'm pretty sure he was talking about the procedure, but I couldn't comment yet because I couldn't feel anything. My final feelings on that came an hour later as I was holding ice on my swollen jaw and crying for painkillers.
At least I have cute shoes. Even in pain and tears, I have cute shoes. That has to be worth something.