No one likes going to the dentist, but we all must admit that we love that freshly clean feeling we get after an hour of picking with sharp metal instruments. Last week, I went for my annual cleaning, and although I was admittedly apprehensive to undergo this marginally uncomfortable procedure in the developing world, the office was clean and modern and the dentist spoke fluent English, so I figured everything would be routine. Physically and emotionally, it was anything but.
After the hygienist did the air test for cavities, miraculously finding none considering the amount of sugar we consume in this country, the dentist came in to do the cleaning, which took all of 15 minutes. This is because she picked my teeth faster and harder and less thoroughly than they have ever been picked, following up with a speedy brush and floss, all the while insulting me with a smile: “You’re a Peace Corps volunteer? You don’t look like one. You look like a city girl. Do you wear these boots and skirt in your site? Ya know, you kinda look like a baby. I’m pretty sure it’s because your front teeth are a bit jagged.” Of course, I could respond to none of this because her crazy hands were in my mouth, and then she was gone before I could thoroughly rinse away the small chunks of bloody gums (NOT an exaggeration) that she had separated from their rightful home in her flurry of “cleaning”.
My teeth felt not even the slightest bit cleaner afterward, and “baby” that I am, I cried wee wee wee all the way home.
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