I dislike going to the dentist. Actually, I should be more specific – I dislike having any sort of dental work done to me. It’s possible that I have literally cried at the dentist’s office on multiple occasions, and it’s also possible that I have been on the verge of tears at the dentist’s office more times than I care to remember, including today.
Sitting in the chair, it’s difficult to remember that I’m a grown up, as the inner monologue is trying to calmly say, “Keep it together, lady… or at the very least don’t start sobbing hysterically because there are two very large pieces of metal in your mouth and you’re liable to choke to death.” And my greatest feat at that moment seemed to be trying to remember to breathe.
But then the time comes when I decide, “Wait a minute, I’m finished with this!” and tell the (friendly) dental types that hey, I’m freaking out and you need to stop. Right now. And they do.
If that isn’t enough to remind me that I am, in fact (for the most part) a grown up, then the part when the dentist comes in and reminds me that I still have perhaps thousands of dollars of work left to be done in my mouth, and a chunk of that needs to happen in the next three months, well, that’s plenty enough reminder to kick me back to grown-up land. And then, of course, there’s the checking out and paying for the current
torture visit… and I walk away wishing that somehow I could pick and choose my grown-up moments.