I fight tooth and nail to avoid it, but yet every six months I still find myself outsmarted and at the hands of my nemesis.

There are few things on this planet I hate more than going to the dentist. It even edges out Brussels sprouts and grown women wearing overalls. Yes, it is that personally loathsome.

It�s not one particular dentist, mind you or even the profession as a whole. My fear and trepidation is for the select few masochists who work on my mouth. I�m not sure what I did to make it into the target profile of �101 ways to Torture Your Patient� Monthly, but please accept my apologies and cancel my subscription.

My long postponed, canceled, rescheduled, overdue, missed, put off and dragged in by the skin of that body part that I so hate to maintain appointment was earlier this week. After the kids came out with their newly-polished smiles, I reluctantly pasted one on and boarded the S.S. Styx to the examination room.

One of the many forms of torture he likes to wield upon me is to stick something sharp and metal into my mouth, and then ask a question knowing full well I can�t answer with anything other than a mmmmuuummmpppfff�.

�I see you have some teeth sensitivity?�

Fortunately, I needed no voice for that question; I merely answered with a scissor kick to his head when he touched my left incisor.

�And have you been flossing regularly?�

�Mmmmuuummmpppfff.� Translate that to, yes, if the cherry stem from my Manhattan counts.

�You may want to cut back on your coffee and soda intake.�

�Mmmmuuummmpppfff!!!� I have 4 kids, including a teething infant, 2 on baseball teams, a toddler in training for potty training and a puppy with an oral fixation on my shoes; take away caffeine and there are precious few legal substances to get me through my day.

When he begins to call an impromptu game of dental bingo--Slight recession on B4, Thinning enamel on C2--I realize how completely violated I feel at this moment. It�s like he�s performing an autopsy when I�m wide awake. Or reading my Tarot cards at the Blackjack table at Circus Circus after the $2.99 buffet. Or ordering the transcripts of Geraldo Rivera�s exclusive hidden camera tell-all interview with Mr. Sandman and my accountant.

It�s that disconcertingly intimate.

And I wonder not for the first time at the absolute archaic barbarism of this task as I bite down on a butterfly cardboard X-ray film that pinches my cheek and makes me gag every blessed time why couldn�t someone design one that was actually made for the human mouth if they insist on jamming one there; how a civilized twenty first century gal with an unredeemed Applebee�s gift card like me could escape this wretched process?

I inquire into his surrogate program.

He looks at me in horror as if I had just suggested drinking non-fluoridated water or something.

�Surrogate? Yeah, we dentists have surrogates. They�re called dentures. I don�t think that�s what you really want, Missy.�

He resumes his methodic scraping and stabbing of my entire oral cavity with a satisfied hrummpf, and I consider it more painful and intrusive than childbirth, so surrogate teeth are not so offensive to me. After 3 � hours, he announces that I have no cavities. I think he is secretly disappointed.

I, am quite pleased however, and think that maybe despite all of his lectures to the contrary, that perhaps I�m doing something right.

But from my monosyllabic grunts, my irrational fear of dentistry and my inability to figure out how to grin and bear it, the dentist still thinks I am an idiot.

I wish I hadn�t had my wisdom teeth removed.

�2007 Tracey Henry

Divamail me! Divamail@SuburbanDiva.com.