Off to the dentist’s office at high noon today, the hygienist at one end of the showdown, pick in hand, and me there at the other end with nothing but my plaque to protect me.
I deeply, deeply dislike having my teeth worked on, which is a little silly. I don’t have a traumatic history of dental work, outside of two root canals, which were easy-peasy. My three crowns, not so much, but other than that, my teeth have been behaving lately.
In fact, the cleaning went so smoothly that instead of sitting there white-knuckled waiting for a bolt of pain, I was able to drift away into idle thoughts to pass the time. (I’m forced to provide my own entertainment since my hygienist is as silent as the Sphinx.)
She’s a small, slender woman, barricaded behind her smock, head covering, mask, and plastic face shield. Then again, maybe she’s talking up a storm in there and the words are trapped behind the wall of fabric and plastic.
She’s adept, though, fiddling and scraping, and twirling her pointy implement.
My mind wandered off to –
Such small, delicate hands. And so precise. She’d probably make a good safe cracker. Or maybe a jeweler. Or she could defuse bombs. Or build them.