Much Ado about NOTHING

The ongoing saga of my denticles.

9:00 AM: I recline once again on the chaise lounge of pain while dental hygienist "Mindy" invades my orality with various torture instruments, including a pick, a vacuum pump, and an electric sander, while shining a thousand-watt interrogation lamp in my eyes. As always, Mindy begins with some polite banter about current atmospheric conditions as she places a plastic pillow behind my head and swabs my gums with "numbing gel" (which never seems to dull my discomfort). We decide we can agree that we don't like cold weather.

Like all dentists and hygienists, she obtains a perverse pleasure out of asking me questions while my mouth is full of various apparatus. Mindy's favorite question is always "Are you alright?", which she will repeat at least a dozen times during the tribulation, to which I can only grunt a reply like some inarticulate caveman. I would prefer to keep my eyes closed while she roots around in my pie hole, but I know that will only elicit more inquiries as to my state of being: she'll think I've fainted.

So I keep my eyes open, trying not to stare at her nerd-girl face but rather to look out the window at midtown skyscrapers and rooftop water tanks. I try to imagine some twisted voyeur looking back at me through binoculars from a midtown office, taking a perverse pleasure in my distress: Let me entertain you. Then I notice that there is a tiny camera lens attached to the Kleig light that is illuminating my kisser. I'm afraid to ask why.

Periodically, Mindy commands me to rinse with a cup of water mixed with blue mouthwash. I swish and then spit the liquid, mixed with bloody smidgens, into the chair's receptacle. I imagine her watching videos this evening of my plaque removal.

10:05 AM: Finally she finishes with me and hands me a warm, microwaved face towel. "Just like being in a spa, right?" she jests.

"Not quite," I say, wiping my lips. She hands me a card commanding me to return for a repeat tormenting in June.