The Dentist
By the time I was 17, I’d had five years of braces, all four wisdom teeth taken out and two root canals, which were the result of my over-zealous orthodontist and his too-tight braces. Anyway. Like lifts, if I were afraid of dentists, I’d be screwed. I’m not afraid of them. Even with all my previous ‘work’, I hadn’t had a regular old lay-off-the sugar-please cavity, until my new dentist found two last month. I know the difference between good dentists and bad dentists. I liked my old one. My new one is a sadist. The only time I read tabloids is when I’m in a waiting room. I was flipping through one on Monday, not particularly nervous. I wasn’t bothered at all until they called me in. While I transferred from chair to chair, the dental assistant put her hands on me. On my hips. Without asking. Now, I have a, shall we say, Can You Touch This? Questionnaire. It goes like this: Did I ask you to help me? Are you any of the two people who made me? Do I like you? Are we friends? Have we drank/laughed/slept together? Are you my boyfriend? If you can’t answer Yes to any of these questions, don’t touch me. Even to help. Because I lose my balance when people grab me. Which doesn’t help. I told her to let...
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