I did something on Monday that I’ve only really ever done a handful of times: I called in sick.

And, get this, I was actually sick. Well kind of …

Like millions of other Americans, at the beginning of the year I am allotted a certain number of paid sick, personal and vacation days — but because of the nature of my business, by calender’s end, I usually have more than a few still “in the bank.”

Why?

Well, it’s not that I never get sick — I’m no more immune than anybody else is to the germs floating around — it’s that I usually work through it.

Having the ability to work from home is a key factor in that equation. Trust me, it’s a whole lot easier to work through a nasty cold when you can do so in your pajamas in bed. I do believe that’s what laptops were created for.

There have been a few exceptions: a month or so ago I caught the flu and slept for 36 hours straight and in 2015 I had a baby.

I think they qualify.

But on Monday, I was felled not by influenza or childbirth but by something much, much worse — I had a toothache.

Just writing that makes me sound like a little wimp but I assure you, at one point I was fairly sure no one in the history of human kind had ever suffered as much.

OK, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration — but make no mistake — toothaches suck. Big time.

I still don’t know exactly what happened.

It was fine when I went to bed the night before, but somewhere around 4 in the morning some nerve endings that resided in a particularly touchy molar decided they had had enough.

By morning, I was in agony and searching the tool box for a pair of pliers.

In lieu of self-dentistry, my husband suggested a less radical approach: Go to the dentist.

And here is where I let you all in on my dirty little secret …

I have not been to the dentist in a really long time. Like, a really long time. Late 80’s? Early 90’s? Something like that.

I know, I know! It’s horrible. *Hangs head in shame.*

But before you completely condemn me let me explain: Dentists are … creepy.

OK, If you’re reading this and you’re a dentist, or married to one, or best friends with one — then I don’t mean them. I’m sure they’re lovely people. I mean those other dentists …

I just have visions of some whack job coming at me with pointy instruments while my mouth is held open in that bizarre reverse vice grip thingy and … no. Just no. I can’t do it.

But I was really, really hurting. So, I went.

As it turned out, even after over 20 years of avoidance, I didn’t have any cavities. All in all, my chompers were in great shape (Hey, I do brush them you know.)

Without any obvious sign of where the pain was coming from or why it was happening the (still creepy) dentist diagnosed a minor infection and wrote me a script for some antibiotics — which I will henceforth refer to as “the miracle pills.”

The next day, the toothache was not lessened — it was gone. Entirely.

Ah, sweet relief.

The bad news is that I still have another follow-up appointment with that dreaded tooth man. And, if I’m being completely honest, I’m not 100 percent sure that I’ll go.

Because he’s creepy.

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Strickly Speaking

Kasie Strickland

Kasie Strickland is a staff writer for The Sentinel-Progress and can be reached at kstrickland@civitasmedia.com. Views expressed in this column are those of the writer only and do not necessarily represent the newspaper’s opinion.