The dentist

or to be more accurate, the dental hygienist. She called yesterday, cheerfully reminded me that it had been a year since she had last seen me and would I like to schedule an appointment. I said okay thinking that it would be a while to get in. I mean if I call and ask for an appointment, I usually have to wait weeks. But no, she had an opening today and there I was committed to an hour in THE CHAIR. Okay, I am a grown up, I can handle this right?

My appointment was for 1:10 and at noon as I am staring at the amoxicillin I must take before all dental work, I was trying very hard to decide if I was sick or not. You would think this is something one just knows right? Either you are sick or you are not but when faced with a dental appointment, a fine line develops. Is that twinge a migraine? Is that burp a burp or an early warning of stomach upset? You see where this is going?

So obviously, I am not a grown up, not when faced with having my teeth scraped for half an hour.

So off I go to the dentist feeling virtuous for actually keeping my appointment. You would think this would get me a rave review of my teeth.

Uh, uh. After the century I spent with my hygienist, the dentist came in. I like my dentist; she is calm and very careful. But sitting in The Chair and listening to her and the hygienist discuss (in very hushed tones) my linguals and distals and something called a buckle is not giving me a warm glow. No indeed, I am hearing ominous intimations of a great deal more time in their company with my linguals etc as the focus of their attention. Oh my.