A complimentary dental procedure

We already have a pretty good scope on the depth of my overall immaturity but my attitude toward professional dental care would require construction equipment. I have declared publicly that I would rather endure the trials of labor than visit my dentist, who, by the way, is a friendly and patient man with a penchant for the latest and greatest innovations of his field. There are few things more thrilling than watching a mold of your own tooth being carved  right in front of you in a 3-D printing machine. It would come in a close second to sorting my kitchen storage container lids.

Dentophobia is the least of my countless ridiculous afflictions. Toss claustrophobia and agoraphobia into the neurosis blender and you end up with quite a nutty little concoction. My self-esteem probably wouldn't be able to handle all the notes scribbled in my dental file. But the staff handles my childish anxiety with such professional care and compassion that I have had to interrupt my wild sobbing to instruct them to continue whatever awful procedure was being conducted at the time.

Just getting me into the dental chair is a major victory. The office staff are very persistent and inventive, employing every tracking device known to man to find me. I had no idea the accuracy of google earth extending to finding me, cowering, under my desk at school. Impressive.

Yesterday's visit was accompanied by the usual amount of whining and foot stomping. But, to my delight, yesterday's visit also signified a possibly ground-breaking shift in the way I feel about getting my teeth professionally cleaned. My dental hygienist, Michelle, a well-read woman with a wicked sense of humor, puts up with a lot from me and yet tries to remain positive. It's tough given my severe gum sensitivity that inevitably results in oral hemorrhaging. The relaxing, body-contouring dentist chair does not inspire me to lounge comfortably during procedures. I have two positions: fetal and the arched-back/pointed-toes/hands-clenching-the-arm-rests position. The very sight of dental floss curls my toes.

But yesterday, rather than lament the inches-thick build-up of plaque; rather than anticipate my blatant lie responding to her question regarding the last time I'd flossed (I love Ellen DeGeneres's response to that question: "Religiously...Christmas, Easter..."), rather then bemoan the fact that I'd waited months to report my broken/abscessed/missing tooth, Michelle instead implemented the "self-fulfilling prophesy" strategy. "What are you doing differently, Amy? Your teeth look great," she remarked enthusiastically. "You must be rinsing, right," she asked, not giving me any verbal maneuvering room in which to lie. By the time I left Michelle's care, I felt like the bravest, prettiest, more dentally-responsible patient in the whole world. This was the first time that I left a dentist office not feeling like a completely irresponsible loser incapable of understanding the writing on my toothpaste tube warning me against ingesting the contents. I felt great! This was the first time I've left the dentist office not dreading the next time I would have to return. That's progress. This just proves that a little sugar isn't all bad. Look what being sweet accomplished.