I like my dentist, but absolutely hate having to go see him. The problem is I have terrible teeth caused by eating every type of sugar known to man. That, and a place called 7-11 that seems unavoidable to me. My candy addiction has become so bad that I actually have to vary my 7-11s or risk experiencing the humiliation of walking into the place with a friend -- or, God forbid, my wife! -- and hearing the counter guy call me by my first name. Never a good sign.
Throughout the years, I’ve eaten large quantities of every weird candy invented by man.
I chew so much gum I sometimes think I could have made myself a very rich man – if I had bought some stock in Wrigley’s a few years ago.
Of course, like other foolish people, when the dentist asks me if I eat a lot of candy, my response has always been to lie. “Not too much,” I tell him. “And I only chew sugarless gum.”
I think he’d sooner believe I quit my office job to become a tight rope walker, because I like the feeling of living on the edge.
These days, I’m as much a regular there as I am at the 7-11, and I sometimes feel my dentist looking at me with glee when I walk through his door. After all, I’m probably putting his kids through summer camp this year. It’s gotten so bad I sometimes feel like asking how his older daughter enjoyed the prom – knowing I probably paid for the limo.
During my lengthy visits, I tend to make several observations about the office as well.
Why does the dentist always has more magazines than a newsstand?
And people who say sitting around in one of those paper robes while at the doctor’s office makes them feel vulnerable – what about the bib a dentist makes you wear? Talk about vulnerability.
I have a relative -- who I’ll call Nana --who actually took the little dental clips used to hold that bib around your neck. One night out, during dinner, Nana whipped them out of her purse and exclaimed, “Look what I have! These are great for dinner,” before fastening a napkin securely around her neck, much to my astonishment.
Ever since then, when asked out to dinner by my resourceful Nana, I always insist on takeout.
And what about the whole tooth repair procedure itself?
Ever wonder why, as the seventeen shots of Novocain are finally taking effect, the dental staff starts talking to you about how your career is going?
Then they make you play what seems like a game inspired by a twisted country fair: rinse your mouth in the tiny sink – the one that’s roughly the size of a quarter – while your entire mouth is still numb from the operation.
A hidden camera would be great. I’m sure the dental staff enjoys a good laugh after I leave.
The procedure itself is never fun, and why someone hasn’t thought of a way to make a drill that is neither called a drill, looks like a drill, or sounds like a drill, I will never understand. I know the kind of damage I can wreak with a drill when I’m trying to fix things around my house – I don’t need the association while I’m strapped and bibbed in that dentist chair.
The other issue I have with my dentist and doctors is that they always want to talk about tennis with me -- my prior profession. The problem is, I always hear something like, ‘Well, how attached are you to your front teeth? I think we need to remove—oh yeah! Do you think I can improve my forehand by watching Agassi on TV?’
Of course, when scheduling your appointment more than a week in advance, you forget not to schedule other important appointments on the same day. So then it’s off to the big meeting, where you’re barely able to speak coherently for the Novacain not yet wearing off.
I’m afraid as often as I go to the dentist, one day I’ll return home to find a group of friends staging an intervention for me, thinking I’m on some kind of drugs.
“John saw you at the mall last week and said you were barely understandable.”
I was thinking of trying sedation dentistry, but I’m afraid I might wake up with a whole new set of teeth and then, as I head to the desk to check-out, find out I just bought the dentist’s son a new car.
Maybe I’ll look into a support group. Candy Eaters Anonymous, I need help. Or maybe I’ll just start one myself. After all, it’s not like I’ll ever be able to rid the country of my worst temptation, 7-11.
In fact, at the rate I’m going, it’s a good bet 7-11 will be around long after my teeth.
