Just went to the dentist recently.
My dentist and I have a special relationship. She tells me how to care for my teeth and I do whatever she says. For the best part of fifteen years I have brushed, flossed and gargled my way through adulthood. I buy large bottles of mouthwash EVERY TIME they’re on special, 10% off. I have a well-used tooth brush, and dental floss canister at work. Heck. I even paid for ongoing dental work through several years of college studies, despite thinking I could have USED that money for something useful like food, clothing, or a recommended text on the reading list. But I digress. The point is that you might think that my twice yearly encounters with a trained urban professional should be pretty unexciting.
Not at all.
I have suffered most of my adult life at the hands of various dentists. And I’m no serial dental hopper, swapping from one to the other in the hope that a change of chairs might improve the quality of the picture. I usually persist with them (the dentists, that is) for five to ten years at a time. But I’ve noticed that despite the differences in age, gender and model of BMW, all of them have sung the same song: you don’t care for your teeth. And until recently, I generally joined the chorus in a reluctant exercise of unenthusiastic self-flagellation comprised of guilt, remorse and expensive dental bills.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Working with customers straight from school, I quickly learned the value of clean breath. Dental hygiene became another plank on the path to self-enlightenment, sometimes called adulthood. Or so I thought.
In the ensuing two decades, I have usually presented at the house of pain twice a year to undergo the familiar round of cleaning, checking, and removing. And that’s just from my wallet. Going always reminds me of some of the used cars I owned when I teenager, and then a uni student. Every time the car went to the garage, I had the expectation that yet another part of the engine was conspiring against my meagre savings. And thus would go the routine regardless of where it was played out – under the bonnet, or in my mouth.
This most recent dental visit there was one distinct difference. I was expecting it to be even worse than normal. There’s something to be said for having low expectations. I find that if you start a day being morose and extremely unhappy, either the day’s events can confirm your opinion of it, in which case you’ve lost nothing really, or it can only get better. Some days I realise the value earned from that graduate psych degree.
After the usual solemn inspection and customary cleaning, she remarked that it was good to see I was taking better of my teeth nowadays.
Come again?
It’s very noticeable over the last year, she says casually. I’m glad you’re taking better care of them. You must have changed your diet for the better, she says.
But I’ve actually eaten more sugary foods than ever before, I protested, to no effect. I make my own cakes slices and biscuits. I drink my own cordial, dripping with sweet castor sugar and flavoured with citric acid. I eat more chocolate than the Easter Bunny could realistically deliver working overtime. My diet is overflowing with the tasty blessings of meat, sugar and fat.
Oh yes, she says quite happily. Improving your diet will boost your immune system and help your teeth repel decay. That’s quite normal, she says. Sometimes people when they become adults find that their teeth stabilise for a bit, she goes on.
I look her fully in the eye and see a familiar sight. I’ve seen it a lot in the past year. It’s that look people get when they’re convinced the person they’re addressing is just a smidgen loopy. And just a layman, in their eyes. My heart sinks, faster than the Titanic, but just as inevitable, like ice cream melting on a hot Brisbane day. Having just rammed a brick wall, I resist the urge to verbally back up the ship and try ramming it a few more times.
Getting a bit awkward with the two-second silence, the smiling urban professional says, Well, keep up the good cleaning work. See you in six months.
I can’t take it any longer. I take my car keys off the bench and demur more politely than I should. After all, thanks to the health insurance, it’s not as though being patronised cost me. Much. I turn down the fluoride chaser and slink out to sign forms and swap mundane chat with the receptionist.
Driving home I determined to celebrate the milestone with something appropriate. Being patronised by a professional who refuses to listen gets tiring after a time. Whether it be dentists who don't listen, financial advisers who promote real estate investment, or politicians stumping for re-election, I find their point blank refusal to contemplate any opinion other than their own tiring. So I went home and celebrated with a piece of home-made, high sugar chocolate slice. And further pondered the wisdom of the u2018professionals' we deal with everyday.
Most days we deal with plenty of people whose views differ from our own. Sometimes we’re right, sometimes we’re not. But what has become more evident over the past year is that the tolerance preached by our publik skools only goes so far. It's a brand of nanny-state tolerance that says unless you have a piece of paper from a publicly funded place of advanced partying, your opinion will be overlooked and unheard. Step over the line and you’re automatically classified as “one of them.” Some type of weirdo, tie-dyed, non-mainstream alternative. Before the Daily Reckoning and Lew Rockwell, I used to be part of the crowd and some days I miss the u2018security' of stamping with the sheep.
Life can be an interesting journey. For me it has certainly taken some unexpected turns over the past year or two. But the current status is that my dentist now doesn’t take me seriously. I should be getting used to it. Most days I try not to either.
August 10, 2005
