Had a dental appointment this morning. A lot of people hate having to go. I’m one of the few that’s ambivalent about the whole dental hygiene thing. It’s something you have to do, so you do it. No whining, just get it over with. I don’t mind the latex gloves. I don’t mind the eventual numbing from keeping your mouth wide open for extended periods of time. I don’t mind it when they draw the gloves back and you see blood on the gloves. I don’t mind the visual of sharp objects laid out on a table that are going into your mouth.
What I can’t stand about going to the dentist is the damn muzak.
It’s hard enough trying to relax when you’ve got a vaccuum in your mouth and the interrogation light shining into your eyes. No, you have to listen to “easy listening” versions of “I’ll Be There,” “Careless Whispers,” and “The Dance.”
The Dance–I thought that song already was muzak.
Thankfully, the scrapings of metal picks on hardened deposits of tartar amplified directly through my skull drowned out a good majority of the aural assault.
The verdict: No cavities, a chipped filling that needs to be replaced, and I should be flossing more. Not bad for skipping out for two years.