It has been two years since my last dentist appointment. Two years. Typically, this would be due to my neglectful spirit, but that is not the answer this time. You see, they just didn’t send me the usual happy postcard a year ago, stating, “Alisa! You’re freakin’ awesome! You need to come see us, so we can fill your awesome cavaties with awesome filling goo.”

So, I step into the dentist’s office at 11:43 (for my 11:30 appointment) and glare at a white wall before being whisked into the back.

“Sorry I’m late,” I mumble to the medical assistant. “We…took a wrong turn?” We hadn’t. Duh. My internal monologue says, ‘You’re fat.”

“Oh, it’s all right!” she replies cheerfully. “Those things happen.” She sounds sincere. Dude. I feel bad.

I sit down in my chair and stare ahead of me. Another white wall.

“We’re going to do this really quickly.”

Um…okay. After all, it’s only been two years since my last visit.

I sit for twenty minutes with her hands in my mouth. The taste of the blue latex gloves gags me. My saliva gags me. The plaque pick she nearly drops down my throat gags me. I hate this. And then, just as I begin willing death upon some third world children, it’s over. Suddenly, my social consciousness floods back and the internal monologue begins again:

“I’m a terrible person. I’m a terrible person who wants third world children to die. I should die - I pictured them being stabbed by stick-wielding elephants. And then the elephants trampled them. OMG. I need to do something to help them. Have some money! Have some money! Take my goddamn money! The karma will get me if you don’t… Wow, she’s still pretty damn fat.”

I watch the assistant waddle away. Ten minutes later, the dentist walks in, looks at my teeth, and says, “Ideally, you would get some orthodontic work…”

“No. My teeth don’t bother me as they are.”

After all, they’re straight. There’s no crowding. No, I am not going to have my jaw broken and moved back for vanity’s sake!

“Are you sure?”

Just as sure as I was two seconds ago, thanks.

“Yes.”

“All right.” He stands and leaves.

So…am I done? You’ve walked away. You didn’t say anything. Am I done? Come on, tell me. I’m not just going to sit here forever.

A second medical assistant enters the room, unhooks the dribble bib from my neck, and begins to walk away. She pauses at the door.

“Oh, by the way, you’re done.”

Gee.