In keeping with the ranting theme, today I had to take a trip to the dentist. Now I'm one of those kids that everybody hates, never had even a hint of a cavity. What can I say good breeding. Similar to athletes like Jordan and LeBron, good teeth are born not made.
Now you think that someone with an impeccable smile and not a sniff of plaque would relish the opportunity to go to the dentist and have an expert tell them what a pleasure it is to work on such a fine specimen of a mouth. But oh, no. Not by a long shot.
Every time I got to the dentist, the hygienist treats my teeth like she is working on Austin Friggin Powers. It is almost to the point where they should cue up some Enter Sandman when this lady walks into the room and pulls up her mask, because I know there is no way I'm coming out of that chair without feeling some serious pain.
The best part of it is that as I'm spitting up more blood than Danny from the Real World after he got his face shattered, the hygienist has the audacity to subtly suggest that I really did this to myself. Her innocuous, "Have you been flossing regularly, honey? Your gums seem a little tender" implies that had I run some string through my teeth a little more often my gums would have gained super strength and would be impervious to her relentless stabbing and scraping. My gums are not made of metal lady. When you attack them with the passion of a young Landfill at an all you can eat buffet, they are bound to get a little "sensitive."
The worst part is, I think she enjoys it. I swear this lady's eyes light up like Hannibal Lecters when she gets that miniature ice pick in her hands. I never thought I would be so scared of the words "lean back and open wide" outside of prison... but she's got me. I only have to see this lady twice a year, but she still haunts my subconscious like a real-life Freddy Kruger.
Is there anyway around this? Do I suck it up as a necessary evil, or do I go British and deal with the consequences?
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