I had my first root canal today. Hooray. I made it to the ripe old age of 41 before enduring this fabulous experience. I am falling apart one bit at a time, yet according to my calculations I'm not even middle aged. The women in my family tend to be long-lived, with most making it well into their 90s and a few passing 100. The men don't fare so well: their hearts tend to give out in their early 70s. (mental note to take out a larger life insurance policy on husband)
Anyhoo, back to my root canal since I know my molars are of interest to simply everyone (hey, initially I typed "toot canal" but that is something else entirely...snicker...junior high humor). My paternal grandmother died with all her teeth; my maternal grandmother with none. I want to keep my teeth. This one (points to offending tooth), was iffy. After finishing the root canal, the dentist thinks that with a crown it will be fine.
ASIDE: Yeah, a crown makes everything better. I know because I have three of them. Crowns. Well, actually tiaras. Shiny and sparkly. I like to wear them on road trips. Or when I clean the house. Nobody can be bored or depressed when wearing a tiara.
But we aren't talking about that kind of crown, are we? Words like "crown" and "root canal" make me feel old. I am dealing with the normal vagaries of age: cellulite, less skin elasticity, losing my ability to eat an entire box of Twinkies at one sitting without a single ounce being added to a frame once referred to as "skinny." But the possibility of losing a tooth? Old. Old and pitiful. Soon I'll be a crotchety crone, chasing children out of my yard while screaming at them in a drooly slur because my lips have sunken in around my two remaining fangs.