Two times a year it happens. I have 363 days a year of freedom. But, then I get that little postcard in the mail. It reminds me that my 6 month checkup at the dentist is near and I get that sick feeling to my stomach. I don't know why I fear the dentist so much. There is just something medieval about having metal objects jammed into your mouth that doesn't make sense to me. Every time I picture myself at the dentist it reminds me of a scene from the movie "Hostel" and I am part of some torture fantasy of a rich U.S. businessman. I guess the most ironic thing is I have to pay for this service (okay my insurance does, but still ironic).
So I am laying there with a spotlight in my face. A sharp metal object is picking at the layer between my gums and my teeth. I try to find a happy place and focus on counting the dots on the ceiling. But then, the dentist feels the need to add insult to injury. They begin to ask you questions. You know normal questions that a person would ask you at work or if you ran into an old friend at the market. You know like "How's the family doing?". Of course, all I can answer is "mmmmmmmmm", because I have something wedged between my #3 molar and #4 molar. So you really know that the person doesn't care what you have to say, when they know they won't get a coherent answer back from you.
So I put up with the 45 minutes of hell. The positive spin on this...... still no cavities. :)
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