As most of us college students know, winter break is a time for self-care, paid for by mom. For about a month, I get to look like I have my life in order. My nails are painted, my split ends are trimmed, and my eyebrows are on fleek (I don’t know what this is but I’m told it’s a compliment?). I’ve also got appointments out the wazoo. I’m reacquainted with waiting rooms illuminated by bright fluorescent lighting and strewn with copies of Ok! Magazine that have been there since 2010. You’d think they’d at least spring for more hard hitting journalism like Us Weekly, but I digress. Everything seems just fine until I get that dreaded iCal notification, and I realize it’s time to visit my arch nemesis: the dentist.
My dentist’s small talk is sweeter than the candy responsible for my cavities, but once I get into the claustrophobic examining room crammed with whirring tools and clunky machines, she means business. A bib is strapped around my neck and suddenly I’m blinded by a spotlight. She looms over me, and I sweat bullets in anticipation of pain.
Under the spotlight I am interrogated about how often I floss, which is never, besides my biannual dentist appointment and the rare occasion when I go a little too hard in the movie theater popcorn. I haven’t been lectured like this since Principles of Economics. Are my personal flossing habits going to establish world peace? Are my parents going to love me more? Oh, apparently it has health benefits. Who knew.
This turns my dentist against me. She wields her sharp metal tools with untamed ferocity. My mouth hasn’t seen this kind of unsolicited action since that one infamous round of spin the bottle. As my claws sink deeper and deeper into the plastic arms of my throne of pain, she sneers, “You’re bleeding because you don’t floss.” I’m pretty sure I’m bleeding because she just stabbed my gums with a razor sharp hook. But I suppose we can agree to disagree.
All I want is some of that sweet, sweet laughing gas but apparently my dental hygiene is mediocre enough that it doesn’t merit that kind of attention. This honestly seems like an incentive to take worse care of my teeth. Between now and my next appointment over summer break, I’m sure I can get there.
And then my hour of torment finally passes. As I peel my thighs from the plastic chair, a new toothbrush and floss are thrown at me. I exit like a failed comedian with rotten tomatoes strewn in my wake. I walk slowly past the toy drawer with immense longing. Apparently, once you come back from college, you’re too old for a free pencil, yet still immature enough to get bubblegum flavored cleaning paste without asking for it.
I book it out of the beige office decorated with the type of tourist art you can buy for 10 euros next to the Eiffel Tower. Blinded by fury, I dramatically throw my floss on the sidewalk. Then I pick it up because despite the abuse my mouth has suffered, I refuse to let it turn me into a monster. Also, I really don’t need a littering ticket on my permanent record. I’m pretty sure the thousands of environmental groups at Brown would have me expelled for that shit. I express my rage through a more environmentally conscious form of vindictive rebellion: I speed off (in a Prius, ok?!) to the candy store and buy $20 worth of caramels (with my moms money of course, I’m still on winter break).
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