Upon arriving at college, I was positive dental visits were over. They were merely relics of my childhood when some man would stick his fingers into my mouth, feel around, mumble numbers and say, "I'm actually the janitor. Sorry." But it turns out I need 'check-ups' about once a year, to ensure my mouth doesn't start looking like a keyboard (aesthetically unpleasing, yes, but great for impromptu jam sessions).
When I was younger, I didn't mind going to the dentist because in the waiting room, like a shrine, stood a Ms. Pacman arcade game. Unfortunately I had to wait 30 minutes to play because the line was full of children who thought the console was the greatest thing to happen since "Full House" went on the air. And when I did reach the game, the joystick was hard to move, due to years, ironically, of tartar buildup.
Those happy times are over, however. Partly because I'm 10 years older than the other patients, and partly because last June, impatient with this bully named Timmy who kept cutting in the Pacman line, I 'accidentally' ripped both joysticks off the game. Consequently, I am no longer legally allowed within 50 yards of Timmy, that dentist office, a Ms. Pacman machine and anybody under the age of eight.
I now attend an 'adult' dentist office, which means (1) most of the patients are older than me, and (2) there are a lot of 'adult' magazines in the waiting room. Just joking. This isn't my bathroom. But there were about 30 hunting and fishing magazines. In all honesty, how can I trust a dentist who clearly has an affinity for guns and sharp hooks? From there it's not a long leap to becoming Steve Martin from "A Little Shop of Horrors," although, granted, I wouldn't mind my dentist singing more show tunes.
Besides the tighter regulations on what janitors can and cannot do around the workplace, the most important difference between my new and old dentist office is the friendliness of the oral hygienists. At my childhood office, the hygienists would sit me down, give me a pillow, smile, clean my teeth ever so gently and playfully tickle me if I seemed morose. At the new place, though, about all the hygienist will do, if I'm lucky, is not paralyze me.
I recently had one of these dreaded check-ups. At first I thought perhaps this visit would be different; perhaps this time the hygienist wouldn't make me crave a death that wouldn't come. And, indeed, her true nature remained hidden at first. In a sweet voice, she called me into a seemingly innocuous room, replete with pictures of beach-front porches -- the picturesque scenes that remind you of family vacations, though not the bad ones where old people reprimand you for never writing back, even though they only send you one generic (and money-less) Hallmark card a year. Correct me if I'm wrong, but receiving cards without cash is like a movie starring Eddie Murphy. It holds so much promise, but in the end makes you question whether or not a little piece of you has just been lost forever.
So she and the teeth-cleaning room seemed serene enough. Yet as soon as I felt comfortable in the patient chair, the hygienist said, "You look too comfortable." Then she angled the chair so that my back no longer logically aligned with the rest of me.
From there the trouble began. Almost immediately she produced a long, sharp torture device called a 'pick' and began stabbing my teeth, as if she believed I had inches of calcium buildup that could only be removed if the tooth was too. Next she stuck that suction tube into my mouth. Like a dog faced with a vacuum, I'm terrified of this tube. Every time I close my mouth around it, a part of me really thinks the hygienist is going to crank up the power, thereby causing it to suck up, along with my gum debris, my heart. The hygienist would then hold it up, "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom"-style, and laugh maniacally.
Sorry. That was mean. I'm sure most oral hygienists are great people, with loving families and pretty facial features, who don't have the desire to hold up their patients' hearts. It was probably just the combination of this woman and my sensitive teeth (like, really sensitive. The other day I had to console them for two hours after somebody mocked their luster).
Yet although it hurts to smile after these visits, I do appreciate the free toothpaste I receive. And for a cheap college student who is still paying off the cost of a certain Ms. Pacman arcade game, and who is consistently disappointed by Hallmark cards without money, I need to save all the money I can.
Chris' column runs weekly Mondays. He can be reached at shuptrine@cavalierdaily.com.
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