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The dentist is a daunting experience. On my way there today, I envisioned myself with severely stained and rotting teeth and decided that I could still live a fulfilling lifestyle that way. Hey, dentures are a fine alternative as well! Pop em out, put em in a cup. DONE. Anything but the dentist. It's a real wonder of the world that I even made it there today, given the fact that I was left to drive myself. Before I left, I decided the only way my car would find itself to Dr. Corsaro's office, 22 miles away, would be to trick myself. So I pretended I was getting ready to go out shopping and have fun with my friends. Needless to say, as I sat in the waiting room hearing the distant sound of drills rev, women scream, and grown men crying behind the glass doors to the office, I looked damn fashionable. Alas, not even my favorite jeans could save me from my fate.

Once in THE CHAIR I start to feel my entire body involuntarily tense. On any normal circumstances, this chair might be a fine piece of relaxing furniture for lounging, but the way my head fits perfectly into the grooved headrest only brings foreboding. My hygenist turns on the overhead lamp and I have a sudden urgency to shout "I DIDN'T DO IT!" ...or at least fess up to never flossing. I think they do that on purpose. They always ask, have you had any problems with your teeth recently? "well now that you mention it, my incisor has been slacking on the job and I just can't seem to talk any sense into him." No. No problems. Next question is always, "any trouble flossing?" Okay, why don't you just come out and say it. You know I haven't been flossing! Who has time to floss everyday?! It hurts! My gums bleed and I do not buy that load they feed you about it getting easier over time. But today I answer, "nope, no trouble." Because I really haven't had any trouble with flossing...because I don't do it.

When asked what flavor "polish" I want, I stick to my usual mint-the only option that doesn't instigate a gag reflex. She hands me a pair of goggles that make me question my safety, and so begins the cleaning. Do you ever wonder why it's gritty? Is that entirely necessary? The grit evokes a physical response in me much like finger nails on a chalk board, and I'm slightly relieved when my focus is shifted and the hygienist starts talking to me. The only problem is that this conversation quickly turns into 20 questions--further driving home the air of an instigation. Surely I would love to tell this woman all about my college experience and future plans, but her hands are halfway down my throat, and I'm having a hard time breathing, let alone orating on my life story. When she realizes this, she pulls her hands out and I end up spitting my "polish" all over the place while trying to say "California". I now see the importance of the goggles.

I'm happy to report that I escaped the place within an inch of my life, but with shiny teeth. Six months will come too soon.