The Dentist (a follow up to Monday's post)

I have a long history with the dentist.

When I was but a child, I never really saw the need to brush my teeth. I also liked to smack my face
into concrete sidewalks, and I was one of those blessed people to get tetracycline stains on my upper
incisors, so that meant I got to see the dentist a fair bit.

Oddly enough, by the time I was a teenager, I began working in the field of orthodontics. I remember
attending a fancy office party during the holidays with my boss and several of his close friends and
colleagues. We were all in our holiday finery when I happened to run into my dentist. I kid you not, I’d
been in that guy’s office AT LEAST three times in the last two weeks (you know, because when you don’t
take care of your teeth as a kid, you pay for it as an adult no matter how good your hygiene is after the
fact), so it seemed odd to me that he didn’t recognize me at the party.

“Hi, Dr. Smith!” I said, thinking we’d fall into our usual banter about the weather, sports, etc.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “What’s your name?”

I was a little hurt, but still cheerily said, “Sarah? I just visited your office last week?”

You could visibly see the light turn on in recognition. “Ohhhh, Sarah!” he said. And then, “I didn’t
recognize you standing up with your clothes on!”

Oh. My. God.

I wanted to die, right then and there. How dare he suggest that we’d been having some sort of illicit
affair when I was going in for “fillings.” It turns out that he was confused by seeing me dressed up for a
party, rather than dressed in scrubs for a day at work. Either way...geez, dude.