I have crooked teeth. I know I do. A less than perfect smile is actually what happened to me when I started dreading the dental chair of my childhood. I used to view dentists as secret madmen, monstrous people who would talk decently to the mommies then terrorize the children with sharp tools and drills, boring holes into gums and excavating tender milk teeth without mercy. I dreaded dentists so much when I was younger, and now that I have begun wearing orthodontic braces to bring back my winsome smile, I secretly fear them still. Of course, my dentist now is actually a very patient man, surrounded by equally patient partner dentists and assistants. I love going to the clinic, with its cute television, comfy chairs, and old magazines on the waiting room coffee table. Yet, the dental chair is another thing altogether. I wish a musical dental chair was invented, so that when I begin to lie down and have my sensitive orifices pored over and probed, a medley of Jason Mraz and Nat Bedingfield songs would explode, bringing me to a state of near nirvana.
Tomorrow is my next appointment and until this hour, no musical dental chair has been invented yet. So wish me the grandest of lucks.