I think part of the reason I’m still single is that I’m afraid to let anyone get too close to me. I figure, the further back I can keep people I want to impress, the less likely they are to notice my many dazzling luminous flaws. Given that, it’s a miracle I consent to be examined by a dentist at all.
The dentist is a bizarre creature. You walk into her office more or less voluntarily, ask her to jam her hands awkwardly into your mouth, and then pay her for the privilege. She scrapes away at your teeth, one by one, a sensation you can feel all along your jawline. Meanwhile, you’re trying to pull your tongue as far back down your throat as you can, because… well, there’s only so much room in your mouth, and she’s got to fit a rubber hose and a vacuum cleaner in there. The worst part is that if you accidentally lick her hand, you’re the one who feels like you’ve been invasive.
Then there are those creepy goggles that she wears. You know, the ones that completely obscure her eyes so that the whole experience is even more like an alien abduction than it would have been otherwise. When the light’s shining, you can kind of see yourself reflected in the inhuman glass, and that’s when the real insecurities begin:
“She’s spending a lot of time on those molars. The back of my mouth must be hideous!”
“Do I have spittle in my beard? Did she trail a line of saliva behind her when she pulled that hook out of my mouth last time?”
“Oh no! What if I have a boogie in my nose?”
I’m positive dentists see the worst side of people. It’s a miracle they can get close enough to another human being to ever make little dentists.