Making a mountain out of a molar-hill

A few weeks ago I had to go to the dentist to get a tooth filled.

While I love my dentist, I hate GOING to the dentist. Love him. Hate what he does.

A little history about my hate-hate relationship with the dentist. I hate going to the dentist. The end. I'm not sure of the impetus of said dental aversion. I don't think I ever had a bad experience or anything. I just don't like to go.

Seriously people, there for awhile, it had been *years* since I had gone for a cleaning. I finally caved several years ago and started going to a new dentist. And I actually know this guy personally - have known him for years and years - we go to church together - so it's nothing personal against him. He's a real nice guy. He can't help it if he picked such a crummy profession.

He knows I have "issues".

That's why there is a chicken sticker on my chart.

OK, maybe not really. But I'm sure there is some secret dental code on there for "gas her up as soon as she walks in the door or we'll never get in her mouth".

One time he told me there was "a little spot he needed to work on". That, people, is secret dental code for ROOT CANAL. I finally caught on after my third return appointment. Hey, I'm not stupid.

Anyhoo, I now go to the dentist twice a year. GASP! Is that nuts or what? Two times a year to get my teeth cleaned. All in the name of good oral hygiene. Stop the madness.

But at my last exam, he found a little spot. No seriously, this time it was just a little spot. And, like the good patient that I am, I said I would "just call back for an appointment" rather than make one right there at the Good Bye Desk.

And I never did.

Even though I had very good intentions of doing it. Kind of.

That was four months ago.

And the alleged rumors you are hearing about me totally dodging in a Sunday school classroom to avoid seeing Dr. T in the hallway at church are absolutely not true. So don't believe those if you hear them.

But you will be glad to know that I finally made my appointment. Aren't you proud of me?

For 8:30 in the morning.

And yes, they called me twice to reconfirm.

Because they really think I won't come.

But I got there at 8:10 am. Very early. Like a good eager prompt patient.

Except my appointment was at 8:00 am. And they called me on my cell. While I was sitting in the parking lot killing time. But they thought I was ditching them.

So I went on in. They don't even let me sit in the waiting room because they think I'll bolt. Seriously. I've never even really SEEN his waiting room. They take me straight back and fire up the nitrous to knock me out immediately. There is no escaping. One of these days, they'll probably meet me in the parking lot with the gas and a stretcher.

I went back and got in the chair and before I could say "Good Morning Dr. T", he had the mask on my face.

And he cranked up the nitrous. And I cranked up the iPod.

Nothing like a little laughing gas and some Foo Fighters.

He drilled.

I drooled.

And after an hour, he was finished. But it really didn't feel like an hour. Because I was in Nitrousville. And it's really not such a bad place to be. Wheeeeeee!

When I left, I couldn't feel the left side of my face. From my nose all the way over to my ear.

And maybe while I was looking for my lips, I smeared chapstick all over my cheek and maybe I didn't. I will never tell.

But I did actually looked for a straw to sip my coffee with when I got back to the office.

And I was talking like I had experienced some sort of mini-stroke.

But it's all over now.

And just think....In a few weeks it will probably be time for my semi-annual cleaning. Joy. I. Can't. Wait.