The Secret of My Success
When I went to the dentist six months ago, I felt good about myself. Smug even. I had flossed nearly every day of the six months since my last visit. I had missed maybe ten days of flossing out of six months. I was ready to face the dentist chair.
They promptly chastised me about how I need to floss more. I did what Rusty would do in any such situation. I stopped giving any semblance of a shit and promptly quit flossing. I’ve flossed maybe once or twice since that visit, primarily to get broccoli out of my teeth. I’ve threatened Allyson that if they lecture me again, I’m just going to find a new dentist.
Today, I walked in, and my cleaning lasted all of five minutes. The hygienist congratulated me on taking such excellent care of my teeth. When the dentist started her exam, she positively gushed minty praise for gums. I expected the two of them to start composing sonnets about the health of my mouth. It was as if the messiah of dental hygiene had ridden into their office on a donkey on an impromptu carpet of palm fronds.
I’ve accordingly come to the conclusion that they decide on either the good cop or bad cop routine with a flip of the coin before ever taking me back. It’s the only way any of it makes sense.