Bust a tooth.
Curse mashed potatoes (It couldn't be candy and pop—they have my back)
Get dizzy and start sweating profusely.
Hand Sterling the phone and ask him to push the numbers for me.
Make an appointment with every intention of trying to get out of it.
Start to feel confidant that I can live with a jagged, decaying bone in my mouth. I'll just never chew on that side...or that side...okay, so I ran out of sides. I still have a tongue.
Cancel the appointment.
Almost pass out with relief.
Sometimes I feel a cold coming on, like, the following month, and don't want to risk getting the hygienist sick. Because I'm thoughtful.
Other times I just feel like everybody needs a break, and sense that they wish they could call me to cancel, but they feel obligated, so I do it for them and let them off the hook. Once again, because I'm thoughtful.
And then, after a few years of emotional eating, I suspect they might say something rude, like, "Lean forward so we can check the size tag in your shirt. Whoa, wait a second...why is it missing?" So I just want to avoid that whole situation all together.
Thus, I cancel.
Unfortunately, this time I was distracted with Christmas and a wedding, so it slipped by me like an unplanned pregnancy. But with way worse repercussions—in my subjective opinion.
Now I'm fully aware I'm the kind of patient they hate, on account of I shirk then I lie. Like, today she asked, "When was the last time you were in for a cleaning?" So I lied to her. I had no choice, because I'm a pleaser. Plus, I kind of think they expect to be lied to. They're basically in the same category as driver's license weight.
She looked at me, looked at the computer screen which is a FREAKING TATTLE TALE, YOU GUYS, and pulling down her mask said, "Yeah, no. Try four years." Then she covered her face like only terrorists do, and held up something meant to kill me. Or it could have been a water pik. Either way.
She dug the hell out of my face, friends. And sure, I was the one who put the hell there to begin with, but whatever. She also left a clump of bloody plaque shard in my eyelashes and exclaimed loudly that I was bleeding, "A LOT!" Information I could have done without. Even worse, a really good hair day WASTED. When I rose from the chair, I looked like a neglected baby with pancake skull.
As she unclipped the drool bib, she said, "When you return in 6 months, this will be a cinch," and I nodded my head in agreement, even while pretending to enter the next appointment in my phone...
...I told you I lie.