Who would have thought we’d be back here again? Me, blinded by your headlamp, white-knuckling a tooth-shaped stress toy with your name and number printed on it. You, on your swivel stool, tapping your running shoes to the eighties soft rock that seeps through the walls like the smell of the salmon your assistant reheated for lunch.

It’s a trick question, of course. We both know you predicted this. In fact, your exact words were, “If you don’t stop clenching your jaw while you sleep, you’ll be back here in no time.”

And here we are. In no time.

Sitting in your exam chair, I’m ready for my fourth root canal. My jaw is clamped open. My mouth is sealed off with a dental dam. I am mentally prepared for your needles, your drills, and your judgment.

You scan my chart, noting the three prior root canals, seven fillings, five crowns, two rounds of gum surgery, a metal rod implant, and custom night guard. (I hope it’s in there somewhere that I’ve replaced the eight hundred dollar night guard four times. Dogs really are the best).

You act appalled, but I can smell the dopamine high my dental records give you. You’re practically feral. I hope one day you’ll invite me over to your home gym that I pretty much paid for. Today’s procedure alone should cover a new set of Louis Vuitton dumbbells. You’re welcome, by the way. I’m so glad my anxiety is working for someone.

Being frazzled isn’t so much a peak that I sometimes reach, but a plateau where I hang out all day while I deal with life’s little things, like working, parenting, and calling Spectrum customer service. And now that I’m well into my mammogram years, deep into colonoscopy territory, and getting more ads for the shingles vaccine than SoulCycle, I need a better way to burn off anxiety. I know you’re all for soft foods, but gnawing on carrot sticks, ice cubes, and frozen candy bars burns more stress and still leaves me with plenty to spare.

After my head hits the pillow, my mouth pulls all-nighters on the super-important topics I don’t spend enough time worrying about during the day. My stolen bank card. Fire ants. Being ghosted by a friend. Single-use plastics. That time I said, “You, too,” when a waiter told me to enjoy my meal. Women’s rights. The head of cauliflower in the back of my fridge. It’s a looping soundtrack for the clench-grind two-step my mouth moves to all night.

I was actually starting to think I had it under control—if a twenty-seven-step relax-before-bedtime routine counts as under control. But then the Big Five walked into my life: Gray Hair, Crow’s Feet, Chicken Neck, Trouble Sleeping, and Saggy Boobs. They just showed up one day, a Greek chorus of reminders that I’m not just losing bone density, but relevance.

Sure, you say grinding my teeth while I sleep is “bad,” but try being a woman over fifty who wants to get the attention of the bartender, or even the guy behind the pizza counter at Whole Foods. Now I’ve got to color, lift, fill, smooth, and sooth—which is about as effective as bringing a tiny jar of seven hundred and fifty dollar black diamond truffle facial serum to a gunfight, but it’s something. So yes, my mouth may be in trouble, but other parts of my body are screaming for attention. (It actually sounds a lot more like popping, cracking, and, occasionally, ringing, but you get the idea).

I know it seems like I’m not listening to you. My x-rays appear to back that up. Once you remove the latex, before the lidocaine wears off and the extra-strength ibuprofen kicks in, you’ll remind me to reduce my stress and lay off hard foods, and I will disappoint you again.

I swear I’ll listen. I always do. But my kids just moved back in, three of my clients left me for ChatGPT, the oceans are rising, and my therapist is retiring. The only thing I care about is getting my hands on that Snickers bar waiting for me in back of the freezer.

So yes, I will be back here. In no time.

-Karen Scholl

Karen Scholl is a copywriter and recovering soccer mom living the dream in a flyover state. When she's not drafting web copy or video scripts, she writes about the relatable craziness of everyday life.