Mental Over Dental

     A few thoughts after three hours in the dentist chair. Who among you absolutely loves and looks forward to their next trip to the dentist? Ah ha, I thought so. I'm not alone. Let me say first and foremost, I have perfectly wonderful dentists. Just in case he (and she) reads this. I want all my bases covered. No oral retribution, please!
     I do, however, cringe when it comes to my next appointment. Perhaps it goes back to the fact that I've been seeing a dentist on a fairly regular basis since my 'pearly whites' came in. My parents saw to my good dental care. I painfully remember having my teeth straightened (twice!). That was back when braces were not de rigueur. Today they are cool. Brightly colored braces and bands ease what used to be the stigma.
     Not being blessed with rock hard enamel, fillings became a regular thing. I have had 'up close and personal' contact with (a) the dentist (b) the orthodontist (c) endodontist and (d) oral surgeon. I've eluded the periodontist but I know he looms out there somewhere.
     I have more crowns than centuries of the British monarchy. There are more root canals (thanks to the endodontist) than found in Venice. So far, I've not had gold placed on my teeth. To my way of thinking, if I'm wearing gold, I want it around my neck, arm or fingers where I can see and admire it.
     The technology and ambiance in the dental office has evolved dramatically over the years. It's my belief that many magazine publications are only afloat thanks to the waiting rooms out there. I almost want to arrive early so I can keep up with them all. Notice I said 'almost'.
     Regardless of the advances in dentistry there is still the sound of the drill. That high pitched whine is embedded in my subconscious. The simple dental chair has become a plush, multi-function resting spot designed to lull one into submission. It might work except for two things. THE DRILL and THE NEEDLE.
     Some unsolvable mysteries at the dentist's revolves around questions by the professional with his hand in my mouth. Why ask, 'does this hurt, can you feel this, and other such questions that can only be answered by arghh, uh uhn or ehh'. Do you really think he can translate?
     I've thought about 'ending it all' and going to dentures, but the prospect of all those added appointments to reach that stage forces me to keep the choppers I've got. Meanwhile, I'll just live with the 'f' words. Floss, Flouride and Phobia.