My dentist speaks very little English, and the words he does utter come out in this hushed breath… like a whisper of warning. “This will spin. Turn your head.”
I instinctively turned away from whatever sadistic device he had recently purchased to torture my gums and chisel away my plaque, but the smiling assistant gently pushed my mouth towards the aggressor.
So, I spent the next twenty minutes clutching my fists, squinting my eyes and pretending that that evil mechanical sound was just some industrial German dance groove and not the jackhammer I felt chipping away at my teeth.
I imagined the spray of spit and water that cascaded out of my mouth and over my six-inch square bib was really the soothing rain of a spring storm.
I wondered if the somewhat attractive dental hygienist operating the suction pump could ever imagine me as a normal guy she spotted in a bar and struck up a friendly conversation with, rather than the gaping mouth writhing in anguish and gagging on professional grade enamel cleaner.
I was so, so very glad when it was over and the dentist whispered his veiled threats to me one more time, “flossing, brush… see you in six months.”
