I HATE going to the dentist. Really. I’m a complete dentalphobe. Actually, there is a real name for my problem: “Post-Traumatic Dental-Care Anxiety” or PTDA. When I make an appointment, there is pretty much a guarantee that I’ll be cancelling. At least twice. And usually at the last minute. Apparently, this is taboo in the wide world of
freaks who get their jollies off by putting their nasty hands in my mouth dentists.
I have an acquaintance who is a dentist as well as several friends and neighbors who are dental hygienists. Some are closer than others, but I have to be honest and say that I don’t believe I can ever really trust any of them. I believe that there must be some sort of character deficiency that allows you to perform dental work. It’s gross and slobbery and painful. I feel the same way about people who CHOOSE dentistry as a profession as I feel about people who CHOOSE proctology as a way to make a living.
“You can take your finger out of my butt now and thanks.”
In my defense, I had a horrible dentist as a child who performed evil torture on me. Remember this was back in the days before the zoo/party that is now Pediatric Dentistry. Dr. O insisted on X-rays ALL THE TIME and those nasty flouride trays. Both of these made me gag, heave, and usually barf right in the floor. He probably hated to see me coming down the hall (in tears of course) as much as I hated to see his evil eyes over the top of that face mask.