When it comes to teeth, I definitely received the rotten end of the deal.
Both my parents wore dentures. As a child, I witnessed just how painful that process was for my father.
Remember the scene with the horse’s head in The Godfather? That’s how bloody Dad’s sheets were after all his teeth were yanked.
When I was a kid, my teeth had more holes than a golf course. Then my permanents emerged crooked, leading to an adolescence laden with teasing and eventually two years of braces.
I wore my retainer for two decades because I was so afraid of my teeth moving. As an adult, I had surgery in which flesh was cut from the roof of my mouth and placed where my gums were receding.
I like my dentist. I just don’t like what he does.
And really, what is there to like?
To me, it certainly isn’t those cardboard thingys that tickle your gag reflex, dripping saliva all over your cheek. Or the blinding lights. Or the spitting blood. Or the sharp metal instruments that poke at your nerve endings.
I’m a patient, not a terrorist. Stop torturing me.
For the record, I went to the dentist last week.
It had been five years.