X-ray Visions

Horseshoes and rubber bands

Photo by Jonathan Bean on Unsplash

Dear Readers and Friends,

Hello, I hope you had a wonderful day. Mine was groundhog day again, but that’s the thing about groundhog day. It’s got a whoops, there it is quality. And an oops, I did it again thang.

I was at the dentist again. For me this time, not my son. I should rename this newsletter Travels With Dentist. Are you bored already? I am. So, let’s move on.

Today, my dentist said it was time for X-rays. Honestly, I think he just wanted a little pocket change for Mexico. X-rays suck and they’re pricy. X-rays also sound like someone you broke up with.

“Yeah, I’m off to see my Ex, Ray.” And your Ex Ray was an asshole and you’re going to see him to return the mixed tapes he made you cause he wants them back. But I digress.

“We’re only going to do eighteen X-rays today,” the dentist tells me. That seems like an awful lot. She’s got a headset on because they only let one person in the room now, so there’s no assistant, taking notes. A computer is her partner.

It turns out the computer is very sensitive, so she keeps having to say “Go back” or “Delete that.” You think the dentist couldn’t torture you any more, and then they bring Bluetooth in the room.

Bluetooth is bad enough when you’re trying to connect your computer. But, it’s complete shit when you are waiting for the Bluetooth to sync up with your mouth that is kept ajar with medieval torture devices.

I don’t get it. Why can’t I just put my whole head in an X-ray machine? Why do we have to jam it open? If it’s so powerful, why do I have to wear this metal table cloth on my body? Can’t it see through my face?

Another thing. My dentist has only the highest form of tech and equipment. That’s what she tells me. That’s what it looks like. But when I have to hold my mouth open, she uses something that resembles a horseshoe with rubber bands. Looking closer, I see it actually is a horseshoe with rubber bands. Upgrade, please.

So she jams this horseshoe into my mouth and starts to ask me about my life. We’ve all been there. Answering the questions of our dental torturer, when we should stay silent and resentful.

I consider taking out the horseshoe and saying, “Could you not fucking talk to me for the next twenty minutes? I promise to answer any questions you have about my life when this procedure has concluded. Thank you. I’m going to shut my eyes now and pretend I’m not being tortured. And hurry the fuck up and lose the Bluetooth.”

Be well friends and readers, and like my dentist say “You don’t have to floss all your teeth, only the ones you want to keep.” Isn’t that mean? I think that’s mean.

Ciao,

Amy