Note – occasionally I write posts about my relationship with myself. This is one such post. It’s about my relationship with my Saddlebags. You can search “Saddlebags” to catch the history of these posts, or go here for the entry prior to this one.
I hate going to the dentist. I have a past childhood, former adolescence and present adulthood so filled with dental trauma that I know I’ll never get over the all-encompassing fear I face every sixth months of my life. Seriously.
When I was a kid, I had four permanent teeth removed for braces, I had four wisdom teeth removed prior to getting braces (plus a little piece of my jawbone – they had impacted, and having no where else to turn, went downward…into my jaw), cavities galore, more shots than I’ll ever be able to count…I puke when the dentist tries to give me laughing gas. Can you tell I’m serious here? I really, really hate going to the dentist. Now, I’m in the process of getting crowns because of all my cavities and I’m only finished with number three. I have to get seven. I also hate it when people tell me dentist stories…and I’ve just put you through an entire paragraph of mine. Oh my heavenly days – please forgive me! I have a point. Really…
My point is that I fear going to the dentist. I hope that’s clear. But I have realized since last November that I’ve been fearing going to the gym, practically at the same level of intensity…to shake my saddlebags, remember? I mean I really worked myself up on how hard it was going to be to start a workout regimen again, and I had to literally drag myself into the gym the first time. After generating so much lactic acid that I became nauseous and spent some quality time over the toilet, I decided that working out wasn’t just scary – – it was horrific. So horrific that it took me six full days for my muscles to quit aching from the first workout. I recall not being able to sit on the carpet during Thanksgiving because the prospect of getting back up meant moving my legs, arms and abdomen and that would induce pain…Pain!