O boy, a trip to the dentist in the middle of a Monday following a week long absence from work. What more could a high living gal like me ask for? My mouth numb and achy at the same time, with a sense that the achy part is going to win out and the valium I take to make the whole thing less anxious turning me into more of a zombie than usual. And a big chunk of change I would rather have put towards a new couch now residing in mouth. My theory with dental work is that the more it hurts, the more it costs. Doesn’t that just seem wrong? For $1,400 I want a muscular asian rentboy using his mouth to distract me from my mouth, but no such luck.
And, of course, with my mouth half-paralyzed, my entire office now wants to drop by and chat. “What’s going on with the start-up kit edit?” they ask. “Mmmbf arrmmn ooosslllh,” I reply. The odd thing is no one seems to notice. Hmmm.
My dentist is a very sweet man, with charming big brown eyes. I try to concentrate on them as he’s digging away. Have you noticed the position you achieve in the dental chair is very snuggly? You recline practically into his lap and turn your cheek into his shoulder, as if you two were about to exchange tender confessions. “Rinse and spit,” he says, but isn’t that the way most dates turn out?