I was always that weird kid that loved going to the doctor’s and the dentist. It usually meant that I got to miss out on a couple of hours of school. I never feared that when I arrived, the doctor would tell me I have cancer or something. I still don’t get that fear, with the exception of them checking my weight. That’s always a scary moment.
At least with the doctor’s office, I could understand the slight fear. But the dentist? They brush your teeth for you! And they usually gave you that bubble gum flavored Novacane! And then you walked away with a brand new tooth brush. How could anyone hate the dentist?
I’ve now experienced the other end of the dentist. On Monday, all four of my wisdom teeth had to be removed. ALL FOUR. They were all terribly impacted, on the verge of damaging my back teeth like the little bastards they were. Since I was driving myself home, they gave me the gas, which made me feel like I was in a David Bowie music video. My whole body got numb and I was giggly about absolutely nothing. While the upside to the gas was that I felt like I was sitting in a tin can, I had the pleasure of hearing each individual tooth cracked and then removed like I was in my own personal Saw movie. If you hear of the newest Saw 18: Jessie’s Not-So-Wisdom Teeth, don’t be surprised. Also, please don’t watch it. Most of you have never met me, so your first impression should not be what’s happening in the inside of mouth.
Once all of the teeth were removed, the doctors slowly released oxygen into my mask so that I could come back down to planet Earth. During this process, what little mascara I applied to my lashes that morning started to smudge and smear, probably from horror. The dental assistant who didn’t speak the most fluent English took a napkin and started wiping it for me.
Assistant: Oh…eh. Let me…get that for you.
Assistant: A girl like you don’t need make-up. You….very pretty girl. *Cue low deep voice* Veryyyyyyy….prettyyy.
I just want to point out that I never get hit on. I don’t think I have the usual face that men are like, “Hey, she looks of age to buy a drink for.” I’m just assuming that’s one of the reasons I never get hit on. It seems that the only time I get hit on is in these situations. The type of situations when I’m not capable of verbally saying, “Hey thanks, that’s very kind of you.” Instead, they are in situations when I’m most vulnerable and awkward where the guy has just spent an hour removing stubborn teeth from the back of my jaw, and I’m left dazed, confused, and not understanding what’s happening at that moment. On the bright side, someone was nice enough to still tell me I’m pretty while sitting under a fluorescent light with bloody gauze hanging out of my mouth and tears running down my cheeks. How sweet.
I found my celebrity look-a-like for the week though: