I know those people that hate… yes, hate… going to the dentist. They’ll avoid it like the plague, throw away those nice little reminder postcards, deny the fact that they’re teeth hurt every time they even look at something with sugar in it—just to not have to go.
I’m not one of those people. One of my good friends is a dentist. His wife is a dentist. Three brothers on my mother’s side are dentists. Fact of the matter, they’re people just like the rest of us. Of course, their profession involves sharp metal instruments inside unwilling mouths, but I’m pretty sure it’s all done benevolently.
Point is, now matter how you feel about going to the dentist, leaving the dentist is a great feeling. First off, you know (unless there’s a real problem) that you won’t have to come back for a while. In fact, depending on how shitty your insurance is (or if you have it at all) you might not be back for years.
Second, while your mouth is probably a little sore, it’s certainly feeling cleaner. You can actually detect a space between your bottom teeth now that they aren’t glued together by whatever that shit is they rake apart with the mini-Captain Hook instrument.
Third, and probably most importantly, you get to go home with some free stuff. Tooth brushes, mini-tooth pastes, perhaps some other goodies. My personal favorite was the floss card (literally a card that has floss in it that you put in your wallet) I’d get each time I’d go.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: It’s a little obvious to say “Going to the dentist”, so we’ll go with when the dentist either has horrible breath or won’t shut the fuck up while they’re doing the damn thing. Or, both. I’ll never understand why my guy decides its a good time to have a chat when I’ve got a tube sucking the air and saliva out of my mouth, a sharp knife probing my teeth and cotton balls wedged up against my cheek.
scott spinelli 