Revenge of the Dentist
The last 5 years have been a painful evolution in my relationship with the dentist. For the first quarter century of my life, dentists have sung praises of my mouth and it’s perfect little inhabitants. I would breeze through the toothman’s office like a cool wind every other year or so, and rather enjoyed my status as perfection.
Then it all went wrong. I moved to California and flubbed the chore of finding a new dentist. Years passed unattended. I began to notice little black spots. I then put off finding a dentist out of a craven fear of losing my beloved status.
Finally I checked in and it wasn’t pretty. Eight cavities — my first fall from grace was off Mount Everest. The drilling and filling just about killed me with the new discovery of dentist-related pain. Now every return visit is an occasion of angst.
Today was a new first. More drilling and filling, and this time I decided I’m too old for this pain shit. Asked her to numb me up, and she obliged like a champ. For the first time ever I endured several hours with a slack lower jaw. Hated every second of it. And now that feeling has returned, I am regretting that as well. My eggshell white teeth have been shattered and throbbing underneath I found a glistening purple bruise.
I want my youth back, dentist.
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