Untitled (Because I Can't In Good Conscience Use "Problem" Again)

Solution:  In medicine, the termination of a disease.

“There is a solution.  Almost none of us liked the self-searching, the leveling of our pride, the confession of shortcomings which the process requires for its successful consummation.”

Yeah, no shit.

“But we saw that it really worked in others . . .  When, therefore, we were approached by those in whom the problem had been solved . . .”

Oh, now I’m starting to get it.  I'm among people who have the same kinds of problems that I do and they have solved these problems.  That’s why I have to do the solution work.  We’re solving problems.  We’re making them go away because we have found . . . well, a solution.

My lovely wife points out frequently that she would have done NONE of the work that The Program requires did she not see that it was “intensely practical.”

I'm going to repeat myself: I am a Problem Person who hates solutions to my problems, for a myriad of unknowable reasons that I cannot begin to understand.  This is why I need to keep referring to The Book.  I need to be reminded over and over that there is a solution to ALL of my problems, and not just alcohol.  ALL of them if I buy into the simple premise underlying our take on recovery: “ . . . there was nothing left for us but to pick up the simple kit of spiritual tools laid at our feet.”  

Laid at our feet!  We don’t even have to walk  across the room to receive the benefits of The Program.  The tools are simple and we’re going to step on them if we’re not careful because they’re almost under our feet.  We have to be careful not to trip on them.

So I finish up with the meeting yesterday -- an excellent one as they so often are --  the irony of talking about solutions not lost on me as I pondered satisfying an idle desire to delay my dentist appointment for a little while, obviously preferring the problem part of the situation more than the solution part.  My tooth, or teeth, has, or have felt a little better lately, as long as I don’t bite into anything hard or cold or crunchy or pretty hot, and use the other side of my mouth when I’m eating, and not chewing too hard or too fast.  I’m going to hypothesize that teeth that hurt are not in the habit of repairing themselves.  I’m hopeful that my teeth will,  but skeptical.  My experience is that they continue to hurt at roughly the same level of pain until they get worse and hurt more.

I called the new dentist in spite of myself and made an appointment.  He seemed nice, or his receptionist did, anyway, but I'm sure he's not very good and he's going to over-prescribe over-priced treatment that he's poorly qualified to provide.  I’m vaguely afraid, vaguely apprehensive, and not at all vague about not looking forward to going to the dentist tomorrow.  I see in my future a vision of someone with sharp metal instruments and syringes full of chemicals jabbing around in my mouth, which is opened at an uncomfortable angle.

Or he's just going to fix my tooth.

And the sound of the high speed drill!  If I were at all mechanically inclined I would invent a drill that sounded like a trick