Feeling Unfaithful.

Something about him just wasn’t the same.  I don’t know what I was expecting, really; it’s never easy to move on.  But I called him up; I said I’ve got to come over; and then, I was.  I was there, I was telling him everything, I was smiling and pretending that it was what I really wanted.  Before I knew it I was lying down, he was above me, and … well, he was good.  He was very good, but it was just not the same.  There was an awkward unknowing, a sterile “we’re strangers” feel to it.  And then it was over.  I left, and my day carried on as usual.

My mouth is still feeling a bit violated, if I’m honest.  I’m trying to feed it wine to help it cope, but it’s difficult.

I think I have dental fidelity issues.  My dentist in Seattle has known and loved my teeth since I was 6 (yes, six! Many a molar this woman has nurtured).  Seeing as I never bothered to divert mail from my parents’ house, she still sends the odd postcard to me there, which mom dutifully bundles and mails to me, usually alongside other paraphernalia—throwback to the college care package days, but where I once got candies and delicacies from home, I now get kitchen tools; housewares; bulk mail from people unimportant enough to get my new address. In the last box, tucked next to a new set of tea light holders, was her postcard. 

“Magda, we haven’t seen you in over a year!  We know you’re busy, but we miss your smile.”  I really felt like crying, but I knew it was time to move on.

My last experience with a DC dentist was not tremendously positive.  J recommended the guy, but he just didn’t do it for me.  He was ancient—like, really elderly—and the office was deteriorating.  I think its heyday was Mr. Rogers Visits the Dentist, circa 1982. The chair? Was a hand-crank raise/lower.  It was a little bit alarming.  His glasses were ridiculously thick, and he grunted a little bit as he scooted up next to me.  He squinted, poked rather aimlessly at my gums, then said “well, dear, looks pretty good!”

First point, I am not your “dear.”  Second point, if I was missing a tooth, or had a cavity the size of a nickel, would you even notice?  Third point, was J drunk during his visit, or what?

If I didn’t know then, I knew on leaving that never again would I dawn the door. There was a plaque near the exit, dated 2002, thanking the doc for 50 years of service in DC. He’s been practicing dentistry longer than either of my parents has been alive.  I do not find this particularly  confidence-instilling.  

I replaced him today, officially, but I’m still not sure I like the idea of having a new dentist.  It’s like confirmation that I’m grown up, that I’ve moved on.  Part of me still wants to be that six year old who’s so in love with her dentist that that’s what she sets her mind on being when she grows up.  Until, you know, she gets to biochemistry and would rather die.  But that’s so many years off for her.