oprah's bra

i've had a toothache for 7 days. no. it must be much longer than that. when you have a toothache, time stands still.

i don't think ache accurately describes the torment this little piece of dentin is causing me. my knee aches when it rains. my back aches when i sit for too long. this is not an ache. this is terror. i feel like someone is living inside my tooth, thinking of all the mean things he can do to make me break. i've only cried once, but he is winning.

i have layed awake at night, head throbbing, thinking of creative ways to pull my tooth out without too much blood. i wish i could make a time machine and go back to the old west where a swig of whiskey and a prayer were the precursor to a man name hank, pulling the bad boy out with a rusty pair of pliers. i would let him. i would.

to forget my pain, i decided to go running. running is something i hate...nay, that i loathe. what pain could be worse than that of a infected root? running. the heavy breathing. the heavy breasts. the mental boredom. the burning sensation in nose. the inability to keep earbuds in. the public shame. i decided i could no longer withstand tooth death and went for a more participatory torture.

i pulled my stripped socks up to my calves. my black shoes that give the illusion of Velcro were fastened tight. a bright blue pair of 100%  cotton shorts, from some awkward 1980's gym uniform accompanied 3 sports bras and a shirt with a pig on it as i braved the elements. dimly lit streets welcomed my embarrassment as i fumbled with the electronic contraption i gave up on 20 seconds into my 13 minute escape. i found myself hoping someone would try to chase me, but quickly realized my outfit would most likely act as a repellent. each step i took i thought about how horribly out of shape i was. when i felt like crying i made myself imagine myself so fat i had to be sponge bathed by an unlucky relative. that thought got me back home.

my plan worked for 13 minutes. i didn't think about my tooth. i thought a lot about sports bras and death, but not about my tooth. i came back to my room and lifted by shirt up and saw my tummy in the mirror. "better luck next time" i told him. next time? maybe. considering the dentist won't be my friend for another week, this may continue.

i am preparing for that by ordering a sports bra recommended by oprah and that girl from mad men with giant knockers. it looks like a pair of shiny grandma underwear reconstructed to be a middle ages shield... and i am pretty sure i'd rather have this toothache for the rest of my life than anyone ever seeing me wear it.