At Least The Dentist Was Happy

Today's words of advice: Take care of your teeth. Brush and floss daily, and for the love of Pete, see your Dentist, or any Dentist for that matter, at least twice a year.

Those are words of advice I really wish I had listened to on at least one of the bazillion times various Dental professionals had spoken them to me over the years.

But I didn't, and now I have to pay the piper.

If I had to rate my desire to visit the Dentist on a scale of 1 to 100, with one being a feeling of slight inconvenience and 100 being a life sentence in a Stalinist era Soviet Gulag...then my desire would be in the mid '90's at the very least.

To say I dread going to the Dentist would be a gross understatement. Dread is simply trepidation. This is full-blown fear.  

It stem's from bad childhood experiences, of course. Truth be told, I haven't had an especially bad visit at the Dentist in at least three decades, but those visits have been, unfortunately, too few and much too far in between.

Much, much too few and much, much too far in between. My last visit to the Dentist was...July or August of 2008.

Seven years between visits to the Dentist is not good by any measure, even with regular brushing and sporadic flossing. The glorious result of that level of helter-skelter tooth care is this:

Yeah, I'm an idiot...and today (and probably for the next few days) I'll be an idiot who can't drink or eat anything I like to drink or eat. Applesauce and Hummus, oh yay.