I love the dentist

You may ask me why, after all, most people hate the dentist. Well, I can't say exactly why. It's a combination of things, I suppose, not the least of which has to be that my dentist is Beverly, the most beautiful dentist in all the world. Yes, I love going to see Beverly, and hear quirky little updates on how she's been, and likewise have her ask me how I've been. Yes, Beverly - my dentist - is a great time. More you ask? What else could I love about the dentist? Oh, I don't know. I get to go in and lie down in that comfortable reclining chair, forget about all my worries and know that a trained professional is fooling around in my mouth, fixing all my mistakes. The dentist is productivity without having to do anything but open your mouth as wide as you can.

Yesterday was a great day at the dentist. I showed up about five minutes ahead of schedule, so after I told the receptionist my name I sat down in the waiting room and picked up one of their many magazines. The most appealing one I could find was a magazine called MORE - judging from the names of the articles I perceived it's target audience is middle-aged women. I myself am a 21-year-old man. Nonetheless, I found the article I quickly read about what the grown sons of the babyboomer generation had to say about the way they were raised fascinating beyond belief. It was then that I was interrupted by the all too familiar voice of Beverly, my dentist, who had come out to procure me.

Beverly and I are quite an act. We've got a real routine going on, you know - She fixes my teeth, I keep my mouth open. I think it's our mutual understanding of those two guidelines being necessary that keeps me coming back every three months (like I said, I love the dentist). Today Beverly tells me she needs to try out some new gloves, because the kind she loves to use have been discontinued. I tell Beverly to try away. After a few minutes, I can tell she's disappointed in me. Don't be misled, no cavities today, but she can certainly tell I'm not flossing. My cross to bear, I'm afraid. Dental hygiene was never my strong suit. I'd say, in fact, it's why Beverly and I could never be together. It's kind of like The Sun Also Rises - except instead of being impotent I just have a dirty mouth. She's so kind to me, my dentist, always trying to put it so delicately when she suggests I floss more. I tell her I will, of course, and I really do intend to make the effort, but I often find I just don't have the degree of control it takes to perfectly take care of my chompers.

During my cleaning, Beverly is constantly asking me to rinse.

"Sorry I keep asking you to rinse," she says.

"Oh, I understand," I tell her sincerely, "I'm a bleeder."

Over the course of my visit she tries out three new pairs of gloves, and settles on the first as being her favorite. I tell her I think she made a good choice, as I felt well at ease with them in my mouth. She asks me what color toothbrush I'd like to take today, and I give it some serious thought before committing to "red". Beverly approves. I tell her I don't think I've ever had a red toothbrush before. She tells me she has one last thing she'd like to give me before I leave. What oh what could it be, I wonder?

They are called Plackers - The world's favorite dental flossers. They are little sticks with floss tied like a bowstring across a little plastic bow. Easier than floss, Beverly says. I tell her I will definitely give it a try.

We make my next appointment and say our goodbyes. My teeth are picked as clean as they get, and I've personally had a very enjoyable forty-five minutes. I walk out of the dentist's office and look to the beautiful blue sky, flashing the God that invented dentists a nice hearty (and healthy) grin.