I ♥ The Dentist

I lied. I totally don't.

I don't dread it like the plague as most people do, but I have so many problems with the whole experience. Firstly, how could someone want to be a dental hygienist? People's mouths (some of you more than others) are so nasty. Is their job a backup plan (say, rather than failing at being a brain surgeon), or was this someone's destiny? I'm sure it varies for many, but the lady that has been cleaning my teeth for years fucking loves her job. Oh, Paula.

I'm pretty sure Paula wiggles around so much because she wets herself a little every time she explains the techniques of flossing and the conditions of my tartar (which was a surprisingly good report today). She is absolutely one of those people who sat on the bleachers all throughout school doodling canines and molars all over her notebook. One of those that cranked their expander a few extra times and voluntarily wore her headgear longer hours than instructed.

I always get pre-dentist anxiety, where I feel like brushing my teeth for 2 minutes each (ahem, 5 times in a row) that morning will suddenly make my last 6 months of half-assed flossing legit. Heaven forbid if I were to get a cavity- luckily I've never had one before. But if that day comes, I will feel like I let everyone that has ever touched my teeth down. My orthodontist, past boyfriends, that dude at the bar last weekend (kidding),  my parents who instilled the value of oral hygiene in me, my dentist, etc.  But no need to worry about what hasn't happened yet.

After the anxiety has passed and I plop down in that chair and apply ungodly amounts of chapstick, you know what is next-- the chair. Paula presses those buttons to lean the chair back so far that my entire body is stretched out to where it feels like I'm about to get some medieval torture where they snap all your limbs off at once. When I feel like the end of my life is approaching, it finally stops.

Next: about a good 30 minutes of every tooth in your mouth getting scraped with a metal sword and that metal tooth mirror so that Paula can get in on all the action. Not only is every millimeter of my gums bleeding, so are my ears from the constant sound of the metal scraping against my teeth. This is where I try to convey to Paula that if she gouges me with her weapon one more time then her head will roll. This is merely conveyed through really squinty eyes that are desperately trying to convey the "go to hell" look, me throwing my head back a little (but not too much to avoid further mutilation) and a little drool.

Clearly, Paula either doesn't give a shit or is immune to squiggly patients in her death chair, because her brilliant method of establishing a friendly relationship is to ask me questions. Tons of them. And not yes or no questions to which I could respond with "arrgghhh" or "auuuhuhh," but rather open-ended ones. Such as, "So, what exactly is it that you do again?" Well, miss Paula, I would love to tell you about my career after you move your fingers from peeling back my lips to where I look like Mister Ed, remove the daggers that are annihilating my mouth, wipe the drool from my face, and give me a spritz of water.

But instead of doing any of those, she continues about her business and asks me to turn my head towards her, so in addition to the said above, my face is absolutely engulfed in the middle of her HUGE tits. Not a bad gig, many would say. But these are like enormous, disgusting tits that I'm not even sure how she is able to see what she is doing because I'm so swallowed in them. So I politely pull away, out of respect for the both of us, and she responds with "sweetie, I really need you to turn towards me."

Sweetie?

Thought: "Ok, listen Paula, sweetie, I need YOU to remove your nipple from my tongue right now because I'm about to vomit all over you and your expensive dental power tools."

Reality: I helplessly roll my eyes and feel tears forming

Finally, after my traumatic experience of the teeth clean, and the X-Rays that follow, I sit and tremble patiently for Dr. Allen, the dentist (obviously), to come take a look at Paula's handiwork. Dr. Allen is a typical joker that sits in the back room all day and huffs laughing gas. Since I can remember he just sounds like a creepy pedophile and talks to everyone like they aren't old enough to wipe.

I hear his typical "helloooooo theeerrrreeee" and whip my head around.

Holy Jesus, Dr. Allen, what have you been doing with your life these past 6 months? You've gained 50lbs faster than a woman can conceive a child. The grand finale of the appointment is doc pokin around in my mouth even more (much gentler than Paula, however) and breathing so hard he is practically blowing off the little white germ mask from his face. Luckily his extra chin held it in place.

Finally, relief that it's over.

Paula: "Awww, we're out of toothbrushes!!! Do you want some toothpaste? Some threaders? A balloon?"

No, freak. I want to get the fuck out of here and take a bath immediately. I feel violated.

I filled out the reminder post card to be sent in another 6 months and peeled out of the parking lot. Relief set in that I have a while to not go back there.

I just walked in the door, popped some Advil for the swollen gums, and get to admire my pearly whites for the rest of the evening. I wonder what Paula is doing right about now...