1. When I was just a little boy, a friend returned from a weekend vacation in Wisconsin. Growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, Wisconsin was an easy getaway. My friend brought me back a present. What was it? A slingshot. Something every Jewish mother really wants their kids to have. Well, my friend and I decided it would be fun to slide down the stairs on a blanket. Dumb kid decision #1. We had several thrilling runs until that last fateful attempt. Dumb kid decision #2- not wanting to let go of my shiny new slingshot while we were sliding down the stairs, I put it around my neck. As our bodies bounced from stair to stair, my friend's elbow got caught up in the slingshot, and when he and my new primitive weapon finally parted ways, the slingshot came at me with the speed and the force of a large wooden bullet. The return on my investment: A deeply sliced lip and a cracked front tooth that ultimately tore open the roof of my mouth. To the dentist I went to get fixed up.
2. I'm 12 years old. I'm on a weekend Hebrew School retreat in...you guessed it...Wisconsin. I'm playing floor hockey with my friends. I played ice hockey as a boy so I'm confident on the floor hockey floor. Cocky even. I run for the puck as it scoots toward the side concrete wall of the field house. Crap, there's a net on the floor. My feet get tangled and my face goes flying into that wall. With my mouth open. I crack my two front teeth. In half. Ow...ow...ow... I don't cry. I can't. I'm 12. My friends are there. There are GIRLS. I don't cry. I calm myself with my new mantra- ow...ow...ow...
My parents pick me up and take me right to...you guessed it...the dentist. He thinks he can save what's left of the teeth and hopefully the nerves. He fits me with metal caps. I look like Jaws from James Bond- The Spy Who Loved Me. For weeks. Cruel joke. I ended up having 2 root canals. Wheeee!!!!
3. I'm maybe 15 now. The dentist performs routine x-rays. He says there is a piece of metal in my gums that must be removed. I wonder, how did it get there, Mr. dentist? It's a conspiracy. He planted it! In my gums!!!
4. I don't know about your pediatric dentist, but mine used the jaws of life on me. He had some crazy torture device with which he would crank my mouth open. Then he would lock it so I couldn't bite down. He's lucky for that. Then he would open it some more. I'm pretty sure God didn't intend for my mouth to open that wide.
Okay, so maybe I'm not a tried and true anti-dentite, but I did have a significant amount of anxiety when it came to my dentist appointments. In fact, in my adult life, I've even befriended a few dentists. It's been quiet a reparative process for me. Dentists are people to, you know!
The dentist, as I'll now call him, is not my dentist. He's a friend and a fellow athlete. And as I've recently learned, he's also an IronJew reader. Maybe the only one! The dentist is a runner. A marathon runner. This dentist runner thinks he's pretty funny. But his kids don't. He tells me that often. Actually, he is funny. Sort of. (If you're out there reading, I don't want this going straight to your head like the laughing gas usually does!) As I once said, there are two types of marathon runners. Those who are absolutely crazy and decide to train for and run 26.2 miles. They do it and say, "Wow, that was great. I'm so glad I did that. I'll never run another marathon again as long as I live." And then there's the other kind- those who are absolutely crazy and decided to train for and run 26.2 miles. They do it and say, "Wow, that was great. I'm so glad I did it. When's the next one?" The dentist is marathon runner type 2, as was I in my marathon days. He completed his most recent marathon just weeks ago, about which he said, "I suffered through the trials of the miles, I almost had to crawl to the finish line...and two days later I was checking out the schedule of spring marathons".
I've often used the "it's about the journey, not the destination" cliche. But the dentist is trying to convince me that for us type 2 crazies, it really is about the destination, the finish line, the ultimate glory. I suppose, to a degree, I agree with him, even though he is a dentist. There is something prideful, satisfying, glorious about being a "finisher", about completing what you've started. Honestly, I day dream about the moment when announcer, Mike Reilly will say, "Matt Field, you are an Ironman!" God willing... And yet, if we type 2 crazies didn't allow the journey to that finish line to become a sublime, empowering, motivating, metaphor for living experience, I'm not sure many of us would even make it to the starting line.
Careful dentist. I just may ask you to be a guest contributor one of these days. You may not be the IronJew, but you're at least a quality roll of aluminum foil.
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