The goal was for me to be in a magical nitrous oxide haze, daydreaming about unicorns wearing Alexander McQueen. Forty minutes later, the mask was bruising my nose, and the unicorn I ordered had still not arrived. I was completely alert, staring into the face of my impatient dentist hovering over me with a drill.
I was already pissed about having to get the kind of crown I don’t want, or deserve, hulloh. I was also anxious as f*ck on top of that because their “schedule” more closely mirrors some vague Jamaican suggestion of time. Neither of those two things are bueno when I’m anticipating a stranger mechanically locking my mouth into an open position while my consciousness is questionable.
I wanted to chew off my arm. Just turn up the gas so I don’t have to think about it, or I promise we will never, ever, begin, mmkay?
It’s not that I hate going to the dentist. It’s that I hate having hands and gardening tools inside my face. Some people are okay with it. Maybe they see it as a challenge: how much medieval bullshit can I handle before I wave the white flag and whine for the gas? I wave the white flag when I make my appointment. I want the receptionist to greet me at the door with the mask. She doesn’t do that. That’s why I don’t like her.
Personally, I prefer to challenge myself in other ways. Ways that don’t involve my teeth. Like holding down a job, maintaining a home, and being pleasant when I want to punch someone in the dick. Those challenges are meaningful. I get something out of them: money, indoor plumbing, and no criminal record. The challenge of being aware when dental work is happening is dumb. There’s no payoff. I mean, am I going to brag at the office about what a big girl I was at the dentist?
Here’s my point: most of the time when bad things are happening, you don’t have the option to not be present. Divorce. Bankruptcy. Stupid people in line in front of you. If you’re in a situation where the heavens have parted and granted you the opportunity to check out, why on earth would you choose to suffer??? There IS a solution. It’s called science. Hooray!
Besides, if you don’t use what scientists have worked so hard to develop, they feel worthless and impotent. Don’t be an asshole. Validate your fellow-man and get the gas already.
Meanwhile, back in the dentist chair, I removed my Bose ear bud so Dr. Liesalot could tell me sharply that the gas had been “turned up as high as it will go” for the entire time I’d been in sitting in her pain box waiting for it to take effect.
Really? I weigh slightly more than a wet fairy.
So I asked her, “if this is as high as it goes, how is this helpful in any way to the 320lb professional football players you treat?”
Avoiding my question, she concluded, “your tolerance must be high.”
My tolerance for nitrous oxide, which requires both a medical and business license to obtain?
You caught me. The truth is I’m really a doctor. I’m just using this blog as a cover for all those kick-ass nitrous parties I throw. E-mail me if you want to DJ the next one.
Before I could invite her to kiss the widest part of my ass, she added, “your brain chemistry must be different from most people.”
Whut? You’re a DEN – TIST. Not a brain doctor, whatever those are called.
Admittedly I come from a long line of people with steel livers and the endurance of Clydesdales, but I didn’t think it made my brain weird. I just thought it made me more interesting at dinner parties…that I refuse to attend because I’m an introvert.
But now that she’s mentioned it, if you want to knock out anyone in my family going back at least six generations, you do need to come correct.
Oh shyyyit, maybe my dentist is right.
My brain IS weird.
Now I don’t like her either.
She interrupted my cloud of introspection when she put her face way too close to mine and stated, “I need to get started.”
I leaned back in the chair so hard I almost broke it. “I need to reschedule.”
That’s code for: “my NEW dentist, that uses IV sedation, will send for my records.”
It’s also code for: FATWO (pronounced FAT-woh) – F*ck All The Way Off.