Listen. I know I write about teeth a fair amount. Maybe an unhealthy amount. Am I obsessive about my dental hygiene? That’s a story for another time. The story for this time, today, right now, is about my most recent trip to the dentist.

It was raining, as it always seems to be when I go to the dentist. I shook myself off like a dog and sat down in the waiting room. I deliberately left my phone in my bag, so that the older couple in the corner would be impressed that a millennial was not attached to her phone and also knew all the words to “Footloose.” (How else do you think I could stop jiggling my foot right at the music break, old man? Try to stereotype me all you like, sir and madam—I grew up watching Lawrence Welk for FUN. COME AT ME, BOOMERS!)

However, they were not paying any attention to me. The woman stood up and crossed over to the reception desk, where she asked the receptionist, Crystal, if they were running late today.

“You’re…Brenda?” Crystal said cheerily.

“Yes.”

“She just finished up with her last patient. You’re next.”

Brenda went back and sat down. “Why bother making an appointment?” she grumbled to her husband. “Come in forty-five minutes after it’s scheduled and you’ll walk right in.”

Her husband scoffed in agreement. I made a small noise that could have been a cough or an indignant harumph.

“What time is it?” Brenda asked. “Noon?”

“Eleven-thirty,” her husband said.

“Oh,” she said. “So we’ve been waiting fifteen minutes.” This still seemed unacceptable to both Brenda and Mr. Brenda.

At that moment, her hygienist came out, and as Brenda followed her to an examination room, the hygienist said kindly, “So you’ve been waiting a while, huh?”

I didn’t envy her the rest of that conversation, but I was impressed at the apparent covert communication between her and Crystal.

Maybe she was nervous about her appointment, I thought. Fear and anger often travel together. I resumed my customary dentist-waiting-room stance: eyes wide, staring blankly, jaw clenched fingers clutching the chair arms, foot jiggling madly. For me, fear travels fast and alone.

A few moments later, I was called in by the same woman who cleaned my teeth the last time I was in, a year and a half ago. A fastidious woman (whom I will call Sheryl because I can’t remember her name), she had recommended brushing with baking soda, whitening my teeth, and wearing a mouth guard to protect my enamel and jaw, which was clicking ominously whenever I opened my mouth. With each suggestion, I’d shrunk further into my cleaning bib. I probably should have told her how sensitive I am about my teeth. How I fret over them, like a mother duck brooding over her little ducklings. But I didn’t. Partly because how could anybody hear that and not say, “You are the weirdest little weirdo in Weirdsville City, little lady”?

This time, however, she took some x-rays, glanced at the pictures, and told me I had good gums and bones and my teeth had a low decay rate. I didn’t know what that meant, but I assumed it was positive (from Context Clues!).

GOOD GUMS AND BONES. LOW DECAY RATE. I want those words emblazoned on my tombstone (which will be made, incidentally, of porcelain. Highly impractical, but stunning). Although now that I think about it, that sounds less like an epitaph and more like an advertisement for grave robbers.

“However,” she went on, “do you drink a lot of coffee or tea? Is that what’s staining these lower teeth?”

Oh, Sheryl. Sheryl, Sheryl, Sheryl. There’s that second shoe. Listen. I have given up coffee. Soda. Energy drinks. Alcohol. I brush, floss, and swish with a remineralizing mouthwash multiple times daily. What more do you want from me, Sheryl? I don’t know why my teeth don’t look better, but I have nothing left to offer you, save these tea-stained teeth in my head.

“Maybe it’s all the jelly beans I’ve been eating while I work,” I said, and immediately regretted revealing that shameful little detail of my life.

We talked about my pups and her daughter-in-law’s dog, who rolled on the grass one time and Sheryl thought he was having a seizure. Thinking of Brenda, I asked if a lot of people who come in are nervous.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “The lady before you was nearly sick.”

What a fun story, Sheryl!

“Are you nervous?” she asked. “Would you like me to put the weighted blanket back on you?”

Yes, please. It was like reclining under a cloud of calm. Like a thousand hugs condensed and assembled into a stylish, lead-lined pinafore.

“No, that’s okay,” I said, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. “I am very brave.”

The dentist came in to examine my mouth, already wearing a mask. All I could see were her black plastic-rimmed glasses, a sleek bun of dark hair, and two impeccable black eyebrows. She looked like a beautiful cartoon hypochondriac.

“I’m going to put you down now,” she said.

Please don’t. My ego is soft and fragile, like a small rabbit.

Slowly the chair whirred backward till I was horizontal.

Oh. I see now.

“No cavities,” she pronounced after examining my x-rays and poking my teeth gently with her Spindly Tooth Poker.

“Yay!” I called feebly.

She didn’t laugh. Nothing could shake that professional facade. I should have known better than to bring weak attempts at humor into a dentist’s chair.

Sheryl finished up quickly. Suspiciously quickly. I was all, “Take me out to dinner first, Sheryl!” and she was like, “That’s not how you use that expression,” to which I replied, “I know.”

But I did not know.

I chose a pink toothbrush and followed Sheryl back out into the lobby. After I paid and scheduled another appointment, I turned to leave—and saw Brenda being escorted out by her hygienist. I’d gone in after her and gotten out before.

She must have been FURIOUS.