This afternoon my dentist of twenty-two years—practically a family archivist of my molars—announced, with the calm authority of a man who has seen too much enamel decay, “Let’s handle this now before your roots start making public appearances.” Moments later, he was layering composite over two bottom teeth that had clearly lived a full and reckless life.
No anesthesia. Apparently this was to be a character-building exercise.
The procedure itself was a test of endurance disguised as routine maintenance. A styrofoam block was wedged into my mouth, prying it open to a degree that felt less medical and more architectural, as if my jaw were being renovated from the inside. Swallowing became a distant memory. Breathing required strategy. Time slowed to a crawl. For a Grade-3 claustrophobe, it was less a dental visit and more a hostage situation with excellent lighting.
Was I brave? Hardly. Internally, I was negotiating terms of surrender.
But outwardly—this is important—I looked composed. Even heroic. On my wrist sat my G-Shock Frogman GWF-1000, a hulking instrument of indifference to human weakness, radiating the sort of rugged competence I was very much not feeling. If courage is partly theater, then I delivered a convincing performance.
Cinemorphosis 
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