I am brave when it comes to basic medical procedures. I can give myself a shot with nonchalance. I am insouciant as the nurse draws blood. I fall asleep in the MRI machine. I want my doctor to give me an epi-pen so I can keep taking Copaxone. Doctor devices don't scare me.
Dental devices scare me. I cry at the dentist.
Well, to be fair, I haven't cried at the dentist for a few years. And I no longer require nitrous if I'm just getting a cleaning. I've found if I crank up the iPod and wring my hands I can get through it. I also rub my feet against each other like a giant praying mantis. Or, alternatively, like gay senators in an airport bathroom.
Today, I decided I might need to slam back some Grand Marnier before my next dental appointment, because I need to relax. I can tell I need to relax because I appear to have developed such superhuman strength in my lower lip that it could toss my dental assistant across the room. I tried to relax my lip, she begged me to relax my lip, she gave up on relaxing me and just tried to pull my lip off my face. But my lip sneered "back off!" and won that wrestling contest.
She got back at me, though, because I got a tongue-lashing about how I'm going to develop periodontal disease. And no only that, but Gary and I could be passing periodontal disease between us.
"Gross!" I cried, "Like...when we kiss?"
"Yes," she said solemnly, "you could be infecting each other." Then she told me my old silver fillings might start picking up radio transmissions if I didn't replace them.
Anyway, I repelled by this idea of periodontis as a venereal disease. Time to overcome my fear of floss.