High Thinking

My dental hygeinist takes her tools out of a snap kit. It's like a combination evening bag/toolbox. She also listens to a Christian radio station. She is really good at what she does. My teeth have never been cleaner. Seems like all is as it should be, right? But not so fast. Yesterday while I was getting my gums cleaned (This is really an expensive form of tortue, like if they could recruit former SS members to do this, they probably would) they gave me gas and novicane. It. was. awesome.

For those of you who don't know, the "laughing" gas basically acts on your body much like alcohol, I even got numb when I had too much, just like the beginning stages of alcohol poisoning. Just like alcohol the gas made me pensive, observant and overly chatty. This is where I go when I want to "chat" out my thoughts somewhat anonymously.

Anyhow I got to thinking of stereotypes. You know, this woman is sitting here listening to a Christian radio station, I've already told her about my boyfriend. I hope my mouth isn't bleeding because I know exactly what she's thinking; gay=AIDS, gay=AIDS, gay=AIDS. I'm not blaming her, I'm thinking; Christian=judger, Christian=judger, Christian=judger. Nevermind that I had to choke out the word boyfriend, and I didn't notice that the music was Christian until halfway through my first appointment. I should also point out that she is really nice. I really like her. If she ever finds this I hope she doesn't hate me.

Now for the point. Staring at that little hard, plastic evening bag filled with goodies that would make Alice Orlowski smile I got to thinking about a dentist that I can never forget. A dentist who killed one of his paitents, just by cleaning her teeth. The dentist had AIDS, I'm not sure if he was gay, and he cleaned his own teeth. He nicked his gums, bringing forth blood and then, maybe on purpose or maybe because he forgot, he cleaned her teeth and re-used the tools. This happened 20 years ago. Now they're dead, long forgotten save for a few old news tapes and paper archives, but that has stuck with me forever. Did they throw out the tools? Did she flinch cleaning my teeth? Why do I hold my breath every time I get a nick or cut, even though I know I'm ok?

I guess it just goes to show that, there is no telling what a person carries with them. No telling what's buried underneath, when it might surface. No telling how long I'll choke when I tell people I have a boyfriend or when I'll finally stop holding my breath at the sight of a little blood.