Christmas Thoughts

Sitting in a dental chair for my first dental cleaning in at least a decade, I was thinking how I used to dread the dental appointment. Even with my near-flawless set of pearly whites, I never felt right sitting in a chair while a tooth mechanic in a labcoat inserted surgical instruments inside my mouth. Then, of course, came the braces years, my orthodontic rite of passage into the American middle class. From mold to braces, rubber bands to retainer, it was great fun. Having achieved a reputation of great eclat as a dandruffed immigrant in junior high, nothing at the age of 12, save perhaps a pair of L.A. Gear Lights and a public delousing, could have further enriched my social C.V.

But I tell you, as my parents' friend was slicing and dicing my gums, assiduously eradicating every last vestige of the plaque that has been feasting on my incisors since the free ride I gave it sometime in high school, I thought, Woah, it's really not so bad. Of the many pairs of professional hands that we submit outselves to in the course of our daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly lives, dentists are perhaps the most authoritarian--and should be the ones to which we most easily acquiesce. Sure, they dispense redundant advice--but reinforcing simple doctrine saves gums! (One feels a physician, facing the even slightly baffling complaint, is always a legal hurdle away from applying leeches.) The internist will give you a perfunctory checkup and indifferent care. A specialist will violate your personal spaces. Even barbers can talk your head off if they're so inclined. (Thank god for that humidifier the dentist jams in your mouth!) Once you're in that chair, it's their game--you're just a ball--and they will decide how high and where you bounce.

For me, yielding to the oral hygienist's care is like flying on an airplane. You give yourself over to the trained pilot's care, and trust he will get you there--some expected turbulence notwithstanding. If not he, then who? Of course, the parallel falls flat when considering the possibility of flying lessons--does anyone outside the Third World and old books still prefer fishing line and slamming doors to Novocaine, forceps, and tweezers?

It is undeniable: dentists are the best friends we don't want, but desperately need. They are our celery and spinach! So grab that mirror, pick, and scalpel, Doctor, and do your thing!

Merry Christmas to all.