I'm out with friends. One friend is telling a story, complete with full comic reenactment, and we're all laughing hysterically. That is, until it happens. In his exuberance, my friend's hand flails too close to my bottle of Stella, the bottle flies up, and it gets me right in the mouth. Let me repeat: Hand meets bottle, bottle meets teeth. Not a good ending to any story.

I make a little "orrrfff" sound and cover my mouth instinctively in case anything is dislodged and decides to fall out. My brain starts to spin. It's the weekend. I'm in public. My two front teeth are probably in my hand right now instead of in my head.

There's a flurry of people saying oh-my-God and are-you-okay? I'm not sure if I'm okay. Where are my teeth? I send my tongue on a cautious exploratory mission. The teeth are in the spot where I left them. They don't seem to be loose. I don't think I'm bleeding.

Okay, so now I have to play it cool. I'm in public and we were all just having a great time. I don't want to ruin that by freaking out because I think my teeth might be dead or ruined. Not until I know for sure if they're dead or ruined.

"I'm okay," I say to the group. "Um. I just need to go look at my teeth. No big deal."

I bolt for the ladies room. In the mirror I look closely but see no chips, no cracks, no bleeding. This is good.

Right?

I go back out, tell everyone I'm okay, then go home and scare the bejesus out of myself by looking up "tooth injury" online. Online sources say my teeth could turn gray and die. And so starts the obsession.

I last a week of obsessing before I brave up and call my dentist's office. They take me in the same day.

I tell the assistant what happened with my friend and his telling of the story with such grand finesse that my mouth got in the way.

"It wasn't even that great of a story," I say in a huff.

This, of course, is not true. It was a great story and the telling of it was done in a completely hilarious way. But whatever. Right now as I'm sitting on the sticky plastic of a dentist chair waiting for my x-ray to develop, I'm too petulant to consider anything but my own bad attitude.

The assistant takes an x-ray and says the doctor will come and take a look at it. Then she leaves. I'm alone with my thoughts, which is almost never a good thing. It's amazing how religious I can suddenly become. I'm talking to God and promising all kinds of things if he spares my two front teeth. I know I'm full of it, so God must know I'm full of it, but I make promises anyway.

The doctor comes in and takes 10,000 years to look at the x-ray before shrugging and saying, "Looks okay."

Then he says, "I'll just take a peek to be sure."

Oh God, no. He jiggles the teeth, scrapes the teeth with a pointy metal instrument of medieval torture, and then taps the teeth with a different metal instrument of medieval torture. Outside, I'm cool and mature. Inside, there's a primal scream of childhood terror bouncing off the walls of my brain.

The dentist says, "You should be okay. There's a slight chance a tooth could be compromised, but it's very slight. If either tooth starts to turn gray and die, come back."

Turn gray and die. Oh yeah. He said it. He said it out loud. But he also said very slight. I'll hang onto that.

"Thank you," I reply and mean it. Peace of mind is important.

So help me, from now on I'll stand back when someone tells a story. I'll drink from plastic cups and eat mushy foods. So help me, there will be no column titled, Dentophobia: Part 2. Now if you don't mind, please pass the

Jell-O.

Juliana Gribbins is a writer who believes that absurdity is the spice of life. Write to her at jeepgribbs@hotmail.com.