Down in the mouth.
I went to the dentist today for my biannual cleaning. My old dental hygienist had apparently left the practice to go to graduate school. My new dental hygienist was a little younger, and in a growing trend for the service professionals in my life, apparently went to my high school, albeit many years after me. “Gosh, sometimes I wish I’d grown up in the 80’s.” Thanks, little girl.
In the list of the top ten things you don’t want to hear your dental hygienist say, I think number seven must be, “Now, don’t be alarmed.” After today, I can tell you that it pops up to number five if she says it while you hear metal squealing behind your head. Turns out my new dental hygienist was just sharpening some sort of medieval torture device with a whetstone. No kidding about the whetstone. Sayeth she, “This is so much harder when this tool is dull.”
I am of two minds about this.
One: “If it’s supposed to be sharp, then by all means, sharpen it. The last thing I want is the dental equivalent of a shave with a dull razor.”
Two: “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD KEEP THAT ICE PICK OUT OF MY MOUTH.”
If my old dental hygienist was Floyd the barber, my new one is Sweeney Todd. I’ve never had a cleaning last so long, or have so many jabs. In my typical “bright side” fashion, I suppose it’s good that she was so thorough. In fact, she couldn’t have been more thorough unless she had taken my teeth out, individually sanded and polished them, then re-inserted them into my gums. I am not mentioning that possibility in front of her.
I usually go every six months. She wants to see me in three. I guess the lady down the street needs teeth for her meat pies. Brrrr.