cheese

I think I have a crush on my dentist. This tells me a couple of things about myself, 1) that I am a masochist (on account of my acute dentist-phobia), and 2) that I don't get out enough.
I had a date, erm, appointment, this morning, here is how it went down: I get there and sign in, and sit down in the lobby and get to read a current people magazine. (ok, well it was a few weeks old, there was a current one, but who cares about Tiger Woods?!) This morning is off to a pretty good start already I'd say-no kids, a tabloid in a quiet lobby, the only thing that would have made it better is if I had a coffee in my hand, and this were the waiting room of a day spa. (ok not really, but as I have already told you-I don't get out much) I get half way through reading about Brittany Spears' recent trip to Bermuda and her current manager/boy toy/baby daddy, and am rudely interrupted by my name being called. ug. I hate the dentist.
I toss the magazine all nonchalant like I am superman, and not at all intimidated by the big plastic covered chairs, and minions wandering around in white coats and medical masks. (seriously-what IS this place?) I have been going to this dentist for years, so thankfully they are well aware of my anxiety and try their very best to be gentle and comforting whilst picking and probing the inner depths of my face. I clench my fists and ram them into my pockets, while the hygienist goes about her business of polishing and plaque removal, all the while I am just waiting for the minute I can get my lips around "Mr. Thirsty", which signals the near end of my torture. Today I tell her my teeth have been abnormally sensitive, so she goes really easy on me (hallelujah!), she praises me on my veritably non existent "build up" (I think she is just trying to humor me since I look like I may burst into tears at any moment) and retracts the giant spot light in record time.
Enter Dr. Paul. Dr Paul is a man who is around Alan's age, balding, and has a mouth full of braces. He is the quietest person I have ever experienced. I sometimes think he may be void of any emotion whatsoever (he IS a dentist after all). He only uses words when it is absolutely necessary. Mostly he just hangs out in my mouth, then walks around the back of the chair, takes notes, and mumbles to the friendly hygienist. I am not a fan of this form of (non) communication, so when I go for our "appointments" I ask direct questions which require an answer. It's like a game for me to get him to use as many words as possible, and I get extra points if he cracks a smile.
This morning we got to chat about my teeth, and why they hurt, and how he can (try to) fix it for me. I tried to keep the mood light, (since I was still at the dentist and I could have a mild nervous break down at any second) as we discussed our options. He thought that I should come back in so he could redo the surface of the filling, I thought this was a horrible idea. He smiled a little, then explained how he was just trying to help me (oh, he is smooth). Then I asked what if his grand resurfacing plan didn't work? He replied with an answer, which is a little fuzzy, since he mentioned the word root canal and after that things got a little blurry and he sounded kind of buzzing and intermittent. I came away with the knowledge that I may have to get a gold tooth (which, by the way I am pretty sure comes with a complimentary wrist tattoo and gang membership) and yet another "appointment" with Dr. Paul. I asked him if there was any way I could possibly schedule the root canal on my birthday since he made it sound so awesome. I actually got a small almost audible chuckle on this one. It was like magic. (ok, not really, but I have to psych myself into going back right?)
So, long story short, I am going back next month for phase one of tooth sensitivity training, hopefully it will work, and I can go back to my bi-annual dates with Dr. Paul. I am actually doing pretty well with the impending dental work, Plan B is that if Dr. Paul's smile isn't enough (or the nitrous), I will pop a Valium and have Alan drive me.
Today I am a winner. I survived my dentist appointment, AND I walked away with a fuzzy fake mustache in a tiny egg (from the tower of treats because I am such a good patient). Who's laughing now Dr. Paul?