The Dentist & the Pap Smear

I recently went to the dentist for a routine cleaning. I have come to the conclusion that getting one's teeth cleaned is an extremely private affair, even more intimate than getting a pap smear.

Laugh if you will, but read on, and I'm sure you'll agree. Getting a pap is easy. You strip down, put on one of the tents disguised as a dressing gown, and hop on up. You slide your ass down to the end, spread your legs, and bada-bing-bada-boom, you're done. I could run a half marathon the day before, not shower, and have a year's worth of outgrowth on my bikini line and still be less self-conscious than I am going to the dentist.

This is where our story begins:

It all starts with the assistant as she inserts those little plastic bits into my mouth for x-rays.

While I unhinge my jaw to allow full access, my mouth formed in an ever-so-slight "O", I can't help but think, Thank God I know how to deep throat.

So, there I am, chomping down on these little insertions, my nostrils flared with concentration. I watch the thick stream of drool that follows as she takes it out of my mouth and has to cup her hand underneath it to catch the seemingly never ending trail that could very well fill a Dixie cup. Twice on the left side. Repeat on the right.

As I sit with my mouth wide open, the dentist leans over me and starts poking around with his tools of destruction. Though he's hovering over me, I refuse to make eye contact, averting my eyes to the left and then to the right and then back again. You know that I've never actually seen my dentist? I know he isn't really checking my teeth and gums; he's two inches from my face, for God's sake. He's obviously staring and cataloguing every nook and cranny on my face and in my mouth.

God, this is awkward. I think. I cannot believe I didn't wax those nose hairs before I came in! He's probably staring straight at my nose hairs and wondering how someone can look so much like a lady, yet be so hairy. Oh my God, do I have any boogs in there?

The dentist is now reaching over me, leaning over me, to get to the other side of my mouth. As he's putting bonding on the receding gum line, he puts a cotton ball under the upper lip to keep it out of the way. Now, I look like Elvis. More paranoia ensues.

Oh God, the lips are dry now. They're cracking. I can feel them cracking. Put my lip down, please! He's so close to my face. Can he see a makeup line? Can he tell that I'm actually wearing a shade too dark for me for this time of year? Of course he can see it - he can see everything. He's practically God.

As the dentist begins to scrape, I'm reminded that my last year’s resolution to floss more failed miserably. So much so, that I didn't even think to revisit it this year. Quick! I say to myself. Be witty! Make small talk! He won't notice the chocolate cake in your teeth from last night if you can speak fast enough. And so, I convince myself that is the right direction to go. I mean, I charm myself all the time in conversation. How hard could it be?

Is this the Eagles on the radio? You know, I saw them in concert when they were here.

In my desperation to keep the dentist from delving any further into my mouth, I may have somehow managed to snort a piece of plaque into my throat, but I'm on a higher mission now. This is sure to impress him, as he is from an older generation and definitely aware of who The Eagles are.

Hmmmm.

Silence.

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

Surprise engulfs me. He didn't seem that impressed. Why isn't he more impressed?

It’s then that the realization hits. There is absolutely no way this dentist could ever find me charming or attractive in the slightest. Say what you will, but this man's been in the holiest of holy places. Troy has never even been that close to my face, especially under a fluorescent light, let alone checking out the inside of my mouth with a magnifying glass.

Never mind that my dentist could probably be my grandfather's younger brother and that, as I've never made eye contact with him, I'm not quite sure if he is or has ever been a handsome fellow. The point is that he is completely incapable of seeing beyond my prevalent blackheads, nose hair, and previously filled cavities. I don't necessarily want the dentist to find me attractive, but I'd at least like the possibility to be there.

With a gyno, it isn't nearly as unnerving. That area's been trafficked plenty, let me tell you. If who ever is down there is close enough to see that you really aren't that tight, their face should either be buried in it or the lights should be low enough that all they see is a never ending black hole of bliss.