Twenty-five – You either love or hate to go to the dentist.

Whether you had a lot of cavities as a kid or if you were the annoying kid who always had perfect teeth, you always had feelings about going to the dentist. I never liked the dentist. Sure, he was nice and he gave me stickers every time I visited, but I hated that I always had so many cavities. In my defense, it apparently wasn’t all my fault. Yes, I drank a lot of sugared soda but I was also born with incredibly sensitive teeth. The dentist didn’t tell me that part of the problem was my genetics. That’s what his daughter told me ten years after the twelve-cavity incident.

“I was a bad kid,” I told her. “I always gave you guys too much business.”

“Well – it wasn’t all you,” she said. “I was largely your genetics. We know all of your family’s teeth and you guys have sensitive teeth.”

This was a jaw-dropper. It wasn’t all my fault? My entire world was shattered. I’m not all at fault, I thought. But when I realized that my numerous cavities weren’t entirely my fault, I realized something: I needed to marry a guy with good, strong teeth. I don’t want my children to be doomed with the Bunn and Friberg teeth that hindered my every happiness.

I’m well overdue for a dentist visit, but my lack of insurance and the amount of chocolate I’ve consumed since my last visit worries me a little too much. I’m a dentist hater, as is my sister Shanna. I know this about myself and I accept it. I’m no Monica Gellar with perfect teeth, ready for a high five from my dentist. I definitely have more baggage when I head to the dentist’s office. I just hope that when I make it to my nineties, I don’t have to get any of those denture thingys.

Tata for now.



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