If I measured my life in dentist appointments, I’d be in my teens.
Dentist appointments = dog years.
My dentist is a finely-tuned, mild-mannered, highly-educated man whose mother, father, and sister are all dentists. I can only imagine what it was like growing up in a sea of oral hygiene. I guess, in that situation, you either adapt or go crazy and eat nothing but Goobers and never floss.
I’m obsessed with flossing. I can’t go to sleep at night until I’ve flossed. Somehow, even tiny food particles stuck between my teeth become massive boulders of previous meals. My teeth literally feel crowded, like they’re shifting around anxiously, having to make room for the remnants of dinner. They’re polite, of course, but they’re giving each other distressed looks.
The moment the dentist chair reclines and they shine that heat lamp in my face, I’m sleepy. Not just a little drowsy – I’m talking instant unconsciousness. If there was a way to just prop my mouth open and have a gentle awakening 30 minutes later, I’d pay extra. Not out of fear – the dentist has never bothered me. But somehow, when someone aims a