I
dialed the number, casually deflecting the questions about the last time I'd been flossed and fluorided. After writing the appointment in my planner, I bolted to the sink to start doing all the **** I should've done for the past several years. I scrubbed and Scoped, wove a piece of waxed floss between my molars and dusted the back of my tongue, even though I knew it was way too late, like the kid who sits quietly in the back of the car for the ride home in the hopes his parents will forget that he threw a massive tantrum at the restaurant.
The truth is that other than my money situation--which can only be expressed by turning my pockets inside out and making a frowny face--I'm actually kind of terrified of dentists. I've never had a bad experience in any of their identical mint-scented and Highlights-filled offices, and even dated one of 'em for the better part of a baseball season.
The reason we split had less to do with his job and more because of his unfortunate Stevie Nicks fixation; as much as I liked him, I'm never gonna pull off that fingerless lace gloves and witchcraft vibe. Also I hate white-winged doves.
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