If someone had asked me years ago when I started this blog if dentists would be a big thing I wrote about, I never would have believed him. And yet here I am, composing what’s at least my eighth post about the profession. I don’t have time to read the others over, but I *did* have to go to mine again this morning, and when you write a blog, and you’re there sitting still for an hour or so, you have time to think. “What am I going to blog about today?”
It’s been a while since I did a dentist post. Why not another?
Why not, indeed.
The thing is, I like my dentist. He’s a really nice guy. A stickler for flossing, just like you want your dentist to be. And yet, I’m terrified of going to the dentist’s. Like, I’d been worrying about this visit since I found out I had a small cavity a few weeks ago. I was seriously stressed about it. Stressed as in, I’m watching The West Wing, and in the middle of the show, I start thinking about the dentist’s.
That doesn’t usually happen to me.
And what’s worse is that I don’t even have a real reason to fear the dentist. I’ve never had a root canal. Never had an extraction. Just some cavities filled. (I was blessed with very deep grooves in my teeth, I guess. Hard to brush there.) I even still have my wisdom teeth.
So why do I fear dentists?
I think it’s because my teeth were too good growing up. I brushed too much. And because I brushed often, I never had a cavity. Denisa has so many cavities, she’s practically ready to start as Jaws in the next Bond movie. (Pro tip–when joking about your wife’s teeth, make sure to mask it in pop culture references she won’t get. This is what she gets for not watching all the James Bond movies. What’s that you say? There’s this thing called Google? CURSES!)
He’s got a lovely smile though, right Denisa?
Anyway . . . where was I? Oh right. I brushed too often. And so since I never actually experienced pain at the dentist’s, all I had to go on was the rumor of pain. Pop culture scenes of people being in horrific pain at the dentist’s.
That’s right. I have a phobia based on Steve Martin. But something about sitting in that chair, staring up at the yellow light, hearing the high pitched whir of the drill as this person does something you can’t see in a place you can’t touch, while you’re forced to have your mouth gaping open and let another person jam a hose and a vacuum down your throat . . .
Something about that is less than enjoyable, right?
Or is that just me?
Good news is that I can stop worrying about it now. Until the next deep groove needs to be cavitized . . .
Happy Friday, everybody!