If Dr. Bendover calls, tell him I just left...

I spent 36 hours at the dentist yesterday. Okay, it wasn't actually 36 hours, but it seemed like it. Don't get me wrong; I don't dislike going to the dentist, per se. See, my wife works for a dentist, so that's the practice I take my teeth to. They specialize in prosthodontics, which I assumed meant you could pay both to have your teeth fixed and for sex. (My bad.) Turns out that means they focus on dentures, bridges, and—for the most part these days—implants. (Once again, not the kind I was initially thinking.) It's a good practice, so I'm not harmed by the lack of choice, but I really have no choice; if I need something done to my teeth, I have to go to that dentist. (There's a very good analogy to be made here relating to another activity that my marriage constrains me to undertake with one specific individual only, and which lack of freedom likewise causes me no harm whatsoever... but my wife might just read this one day, and I don't need that headache.)

On the whole, I consider it a plus that I actually know the people who work on my grill. It doesn't get much more personal than having someone spend half their day up to their elbows in your mouth. Being able to share a laugh with them, even if that laugh sounds like the death rattle of a drowning harp seal, well... it takes something patently un-fun and makes it almost fun. Of course, the perceived value of this familiarity drops off rapidly as the portion of your anatomy they are working on nears your middle bits. As much as I enjoy knowing, socially, the people who work on my teeth... I would rather discuss environmental issues with Al Gore and Leonardo DiCaprio than socialize with my proctologist. (If it happened, through some bizarre twist of circumstance and fate, that I discovered that Dr. Bendover was a friend of a friend, I would have to relocate to Guam.)

But back to my teeth. I was there to get a crown placed on a tooth. (My understanding is that this means that the tooth will be able to move in both directions on the checker board, capturing enemy teeth as it moves.) At least I thought I was there to get a crown. As it turns out, the last time I was there, they gave me a filling instead of a temporary crown. I've looked into this, and as far as I can tell they did this because they had an overstock of amalgam and novacaine, and needed my help to get rid of the stuff. So, instead of the quick, painless pop and glue procedure for which I'd planned, I got to enjoy the whole needle, numb, and grind thing (again). Add to that the fact that the tooth in question is apparently located so far back in my head that it's technically considered part of my ankle bone, and... well, it's hard to imagine having less fun while having so much fun.

Of course, I did not complain. When it comes to doctors or dining out, I think it's best to smile and go with the flow, because in each case the people you're dealing with are in a position to make it very unpleasant for you if you piss them off. Of course, in this particular setting I'm even more constrained to behave like the prototypical model patient, because if I whine or complain or bleed too much when they lance my tongue with the drill I'll hear about it later at home. I think I'd get less flack from fondling the hygienist than I would if it got back to my wife that I was a difficult patient. No... best to grimace and bear it. And that's what I did.

In the end they managed to get the filling out and a temporary crown pressed in place, and I laughed around the instruments and grunted in answer to questions about my kids, my band, my world. I suppose it was as much fun as you can have in a dentist chair, at least without the gas. In a couple of weeks I'll go back and they'll replace this temporary with a nice shiny gold crown. All in all, I should probably consider myself lucky that my wife works where she works, affording me the ability to find some small enjoyment in an otherwise un-enjoyable setting. (And thank God she doesn't work for Dr. Bendover.)