He holds you hostage, you know. With drill guns, and shots full of numbing agents. Pressed into a chair with a bright light blinding you, you hand over control and hope…pray…that what’s about to happen is not going to hurt.
I’m talking about the dentist.
I just got back from my dentist, a great guy who puts you at ease by asking about the kids, the weather, “how was your Thanksgiving?”–that sort of thing. He’s a family man, a regular joe, and I think he’s pretty cool. But then he revs up the drill. A real-life drill. Which is going to touch my teeth–THAT HAVE NERVE ENDINGS IN THEM!
When he walks out of the room to go get something (more drills?), I quickly place a call to my husband on my cell. Me: “I’m about to bolt. I’m scared.” Hubby: “Hee hee. You’re fine.” Me: “I’m NOT JOKING.”
But I stayed. I was too embarassed to try to sneak out. And, sitting here now, my teeth nice and clean…a cavity filled…I congratulate myself for seeing it through. I’m so adult. Brusha Brusha Brusha.