Because I hadn’t treated myself to a dental visit in over 17 years, I found I could no longer deny myself what everyone else gets to enjoy annually. Why should I keep self-sabotaging my own happiness?
Yes fool, why indeed.
Perhaps it had something to do with my last appointment. I have distant memories of a heavy metallic appliance called the ‘cow-horn forceps’ lodged near the back of my throat, while a grunting dentist thrust his knee into my ribs for leverage, and finally, leaving the surgery minus four teeth.
But that was then. This time I would ease into things with a spot of oral hygiene before seeing the tooth mechanic. I booked a hygienist, who, I was assured, would gently remove that yellow stuff growing around my fangs (apparently teeth were supposed to feel smooth?).
Off I went to see her and things started really nicely. I found myself pondering what lovely people the Germans have become this century: all the efficiency of yesteryear without the inclination to ‘turn’ if their self-esteem is dented.
The chit-chat flowed as she reclined my chair, buckling up the seat belt and strapping the arm restraints into place.
Then she peered into my mouth, and I must say, her demeanour changed a bit.
“I zee,” she said, frowning.
She put down her little mirror, and for a few moments sat there with her head in her hands, her clenched knuckles turning white.
Then she exploded into a tirade about flossing. Apparently if I flozz three timz a day, like ever-body elz, zen I vouldn’t have such plaack in my mouf!
“Well, apparently, lady, if I flossed mein tand three times a day you wouldn’t have a friggin job.”
That kind of set the tone for the rest of the visit and she began methodically testing drill bits, nodding and muttering to herself, “Yez, yezzz . . .” before coming at me with a sharp metal object. She scratched deep into my gums with it: between the teeth where that icy pain resides and only an expert knows how to extract.
And as I lay there the chilling truth dawned: this woman had been trained by the SS.
Her grand finale was, of course, the drill scrub. Through the blood splattered lenses of her glasses I could see her eyes shining, focussed with intent; beneath her face mask I could sense an evil smile.
I ran screaming from her house of horrors like an escapee from the Texas Chain Saw Massacre.
But amazingly, my teeth feel great!
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