A Trip to the Dentist

It’s been a long time, blog. A very long time. Many things have happened, most of them blasé. Most falling into the pattern of work all day, watch bad reality TV, cook dinner, drink copious amounts of wine, fall asleep, repeat 5 times. With the occasional wedding, birthday and funeral thrown in for color. One thing that has decidedly not been in the mix is writing.

Why, you ask?

Because I am a lazy, lazy girl. And at this point, pretty scared that I’ve nothing left to say. That’s not true. I have a lot to say, I’m just not sure how to say. But I want to say it. In the ensuing self-examination (it’s a monthly occurrence, but rarely results in any sweeping changes), I have discovered that writing, to me, is like a trip to the dentist.

It’s something I know I have to do, but I put it off. I avoid it like a plague-ridden street. I pretend like I don’t really need to do it, that it won’t really make that big of a difference, that my teeth won’t be that much whiter or feel that much cleaner. But the last time I went they did and I know the same thing will happen again. So I suck it up and I make an appointment and I go and it’s awful, and it hurts, but deep down I love it. I love the smell of the place, I love being in the chair with the light in my eyes, relaxing, feeling my teeth getting smoother and smoother, even the sound of the little sucking machine. Bliss.

And if I ever sat down to write, if I ever got over the (wrongly) remembered pain, the imagined electric shock from the laptop, the fear of attack by the keyboard, the possibility of electrical cord strangulation…I know in the end it would feel clean and smooth and refreshing and I would walk around smiling for the next two days. I just have to get over it and make the damn appointment.

And hopefully do it more than once a year.