This morning, I paid a little visit to an oral surgeon to have all 4 of my wisdom teeth ripped out. As I made myself comfortable in his operating chair, the doc attached an IV to my arm, asking if I’ve ever been put to sleep before. I answered with an honest “no,” to which he routinely laughed and responded: “See you later.”

Suddenly, a tiny army of nurses proceeded to jam whatever they could find into my mouth to keep it open, at the same time clipping whosits to my finger and wrapping whatsits around my arm. Immediately after my mouth was leveraged as wide as it’s ever been before, they strangely started pulling everything they had just situated into my mouth right back out. My initial reaction: “Did the doc do something wrong? Did he need to start over and reattach everything?”

Then without warning, the doctor and his minions left the surgery room, allowing my dad to waltz right in. Before I knew it, this wee-little nurse returned, gently grabbing me by the arm and kindly helping me waddle over to my car. So much for surgery, I figured. But then on a whim, I decided to take a peek into the mirror — and right where my wisdom teeth should have been were stitches and cotton balls in their place.

My conclusion: a glitch in the Matrix. Or I was out like Christopher Reeve in a game of Twister. Either way, it was one of the most bizarre experiences I’ve ever had.