Chatty Cathy

Yesterday, I went to the dentist. I’ll say first that I am one of those freaks who has their teeth cleaned every three months. This means that while I didn’t have an attachment persay to the in house hygienest, there is comfort in familarity. As such, I was rather sad to find that she was no longer there. In her place was an older woman, the type who probably has a couple of kids who have moved onto college, and a husband who works long hours, and who subsequently decided to go back to the career of her pre-family days: Oral Hygienest.

That’s a profession I’ve never understood. Granted, the ads on t.v. for night school, internet classes and "earn your degree in 30 days" programs have convinced me that despite the fact that we let these people wield sharp instruments in our mouths, it doesn’t take much schooling to earn the right. And it must pay the bills better than working the grease pit at Burger King.

Anyways. While I’ve heard over the years that there are people in this profession, who, like many dentists, feel the need to carry on conversations with you that go beyond the casual. Now, let me make this clear: If you comment on the weather, while holding a little hand mirror and sharp pick in my mouth, I’m perfectly happy to grunt in the affirmative. Yep, it sure IS the hottest summer we’ve had in years. I can’t believe how cold it’s been either! Phew, can’t wait for the weather to change. I’m ok with all that. It’s personable, polite, and I enjoy games of social pleasantries. Then I met the new hygienist. During the course of polishing my pearly whites, she managed to pinball from topic to topic, covering everything from her dry skin (she’s terrible about applying lotion in the mornings. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if life was like the Jetsons and a machine took care of that stuff for us?) to inquiring after my chosen profession, asking me various probing questions about gum care, and frequently checking my chart to see my dental history, and then quizzing me about it.

I’ve never understood what it felt like to be imprisoned, but there I was, trapped in a cell of my own making. By the time 45 minutes had passsed, and we were awaiting my dentist’s final inspection, my brain felt numb. I would go so far as to say that I felt dumberfor having listened to it. It was like having a radio you can’t turn off, or a meeting you can’t get out of. Suffice to say, I’ve learned my lesson. When May rolls around, and I am do back for another visit, I’m going armed with my Ipod, and I’m going to see if the glazed-over, sneering look of my teenage years still works. With any luck, maybe surly will shut down the chatter factory.