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So, apparently, I’ve been stressed.

As in stressed enough to grind my teeth during a cat nap, and break a filling. I woke up with a sore tooth, a filling stuck in the back of my throat (I swallowed it) and a realization that I need to calm the heck down.

I need to relax already! Deep breathing. Letting things go. That kind of thing. I highly doubt that any of the things that stress me are worth dental work.

V0011505 A reluctant girl sits down in the dentist's chair. Reproduct Credit: Wellcome Library, London. Wellcome Images images@wellcome.ac.uk http://wellcomeimages.org A reluctant girl sits down in the dentist's chair. Reproduction of a drawing by B. Thomas, 1920. 1920 By: Bert ThomasPublished: 1920 Copyrighted work available under Creative Commons Attribution only licence CC BY 4.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

That night, I lay next to Mr. Johns in bed, our air conditioner humming away at the window, and *thought* I looked perfectly normal.

Mr. Johns: What’s the matter?

Me: Nothing. Why?

Mr. Johns: You look like you’re thinking really, really hard.

Me: Oh. Well, I was thinking about how I want to end this book… and the Andy character–I mean, he needs to be more sympathetic. He shouldn’t just be a complete ass, you know?

Mr. Johns: Sure.

Silence. Because my stress wasn’t coming from work. I love writing romance novels—they’re my release. I get stressed when I don’t have one to work on, which isn’t the case at the moment.

Me: And I’ve been kind of stressed about __________________________ (all those little things you have no control over and should probably not sweat, but for some reason do until your husband reminds you not to.)

Mr. Johns: Yeah, I get it.

Me: Plus, I lost that filling, my stomach is still recovering from that gluten I got the other day and I’m pretty sure I’m hormonal.

Mr. Johns: Yikes.

Me: Be thankful I’m still functional.

Mr. Johns: I am. *pause* I think I’m getting a cold.

And he did—a real doozy. So for the next 24 hours, I put him to bed, brought him medicine, cooked him tempting meals and made hot tea with honey. Seriously, you’d marry me, too, next time you got a cold. I’m a pro…. a pro with a tooth guard that I apparently need to remember to put in every time my eyelids droop. Sexy.

With any luck and a small miracle, I won’t get his cold, because if you add a cold into the mix for me, my good humor—which besides looking deep in thought, has been pretty constant—will be gone. I’ll curl up and abdicate all adult responsibilities.

You’ve been warned. 😉