i heart my teeth

It's been an embarrassingly long time since I've been to the dentist. There. I've said it. It's out. You may revile me, but your revulsion is no less than I deserve and is better than the hate I've born within myself.

But I'm done. I can't take it anymore, because for the past few months I've found myself waking up in the middle of the night in cold sweats and half-panicked, fearful that my teeth, untended by a dentist in said embarrassingly long time, were going to spontaneously fall out of my head.

They were going to fall out of my head and I would be like that sad woman in that low-budget, local commercial we've got. The one where she's hiding behind the Venetian blinds, lips pressed firmly together, because she's too embarrassed by her missing teeth to go dancing. And then she gets dental implants(!) and she can dance again, with some old guy, but it's okay because she has her teeth and she's wearing sequins, sequins that sparkle under the light of the cheap-ass disco ball the prop guy borrowed/stole from his daughter's bedroom. And I don't want to be that woman. I want a real disco ball. Hence the panic.

But embarrassment has outweighed panic thus far. And I don't know if you know this, but embarrassment compounds over time. So because I've been embarrassed about not going, I couldn't quite bring myself to go. And so I've been caught in this vicious cycle of panic and shame, panic and shame, panic and shame and it's been enough to seize up all the sphincters I own.

I. am. blocked. up. I tell you.

On the side of panic, are the plethora of commercials touting toothpastes, and whitening systems and high-tech, vibratory machines that sonically remove plaque and tartar, not to mention the blindingly white smiles that grimace at me from every magazine, television show and movie I see. It's as if everywhere I look teeth are shouting at me, showing off their gorgeous loveliness, looking down on my teeth with pity -- as if I were a bad mother, and my teeth, 32 sadly abused children. I'm surprised no one's called the dental DFACS people. Except that abusers know how to keep secrets. We know how.

Everywhere I look, there are beautiful smiles and gorgeous gums and here I am letting my mouth rot. How will I find a husband (that is supposing I decide I want one) with rotty teeth? How will I get another job if the one I currently have kicks me to the curb? What if, somehow, I accidentally fall through a fissure in time and find myself in some age where dental care means chewing on a stick?

I must tend to my teeth, but how can I? I just know that when I finally go to the doctor he's going to take one look at me from across the room, not even looking into my mouth, he'll just be able to tell with some super-sensory dental power that I've been remiss and he'll turn his back as he hisses over his shoulder, "You don't deserve dental care. Get out of my sight you vile woman." OR and possibly worse, midway through the exam, he'll say to the dental hygienist in that eerily quiet and calm way doctors have, "We'll need to schedule a complete extraction." And then I'll be that woman behind the Venetian blinds!

But as I said at the beginning, this cycle of panic and shame has gotten to the breaking point. So yesterday, I went to the dentist and the experience was. . . I can't believe I'm writing this. . . WONDERFUL.

Instead of derisive recriminations, the guy was fabulously, marvelously kind and understanding and really, really shiny. He kind of looked like a fake person, he was so shiny, but that was okay because his shininess not only distracted me from my toothful insecurities, but it also reflected (literally) what a good, bright, and wonderful person he was. And in his shiny face, I could see my own reflection and I felt good and shiny, too.

So I gazed into his shiny face and I confessed my sins and he just listened and nodded and smiled and shined and then said, "Well let's take a look."

So we did.

And surprise, surprise, after an embarrassingly long absence from professional dental care, I still have NO CAVITIES. Not a one.

"You've got to be kidding me!" I exclaimed around the rubber-gloved fingers poking around in my mouth. "Are you sure you don't need to remove anything?"

"Just a little tartar," he smiled. "You've done a remarkably good job with your home care."

"Really?"

"Really."

Wow.

Wow!

I am awesome! My teeth are so solid. They're so solid, they're made of rocks. MY TEETH ROCK. The relief! Oh the heavenly sphincter-relaxing relief!

And then he handed me a little slip of paper.

"What's this?"

"It's a referral to a periodontist. There's some gum recession, you might want to get checked out."

"What?"

"Not a big deal. She'll just do a little tissue grafting and. . ."

Apparently, while my teeth are made of rocks, my gums are made of tissue.

Tissue paper, that is.

So much for feeling shiny. So much for feeling good. So much for the oh-too-brief respite from panic-constricted sphincters. But God help me, I won't stand behind Venetian blinds, so I'm off and up a link in the dental chain. Embarrassment be damned.