S: 10/4/02

Work Diary

Before I entered high school, and just before my mother's death, I had
the braces on my teeth removed. "It's time," the orthodontist said,
which is kind of creepy if you think about it. Nevertheless, I was
fortunate. I made it through those formative years with my teeth
gleaming, free of the dulled steel that gives so many teenagers the
thin-lipped smile of the terminally oppressed.

My partner never had braces; his teeth are as God intended and, in my
mind, cute as a button. He looks like somebody just off the boat,
perhaps from Germany or - if you consider other qualifications - from
the northern regions of Italy. My partner has defied modern advertising
and become successful despite the crooked gap in his teeth, which is
ironic when you realize that he never intended to be where he was. He
did it without the pre-fab smile.

Currently, in my own mouth, I have a chip on one incisor and a dull
pain on an upper molar that's causing me to chew exclusively on the
right side. Yet, I continue to ignore these problems, my resolve
strengthened by the fact that I have perfectly aligned teeth. This has
been said to me by not one, not two, but three different dentists. "You
have perfect teeth," two of them said. The third exclaimed, "Wow! Who
did your work?!", as if I were in Hollywood and not suburban
Lakewood.

I tell myself that my teeth are invincible, so there is no need to have
some stranger poking around in there. I floss about once a week, use
mouthwash, and change out my toothbrush at the recommended intervals.
What more could they want?

Even as I write this, and realize my own stupidity, my tongue is
gliding over my upper molars like a mother soothing her children. The
pain caused by that upper molar is constant, but not insistent. I think
I can ignore it. But why? And what is the issue?

Easy: The dentist himself. Just two years ago, dentists were the most
likely to commit suicide out of all other professions (I think they've
been replaced by stockbrokers, but I'm not sure). It's easy to see why
a person who is essentially despised throughout his career would want
to commit suicide, but then, you don't see policemen, teachers, or
politicians offing themselves nearly as much (and God knows, the world
would be full of orphans if people killed themselves just because
others hated them).

No, dentists suffer from a strange melancholy brought on by the
"Potential Syndrome." They are doctors, of course, but not quite.
Whereas medical doctors are the wealthy plumbers of the body, dentists
are the grubbier auto mechanics of the mouth. Like most jobs, theirs is
one of tedious repetition, made further despicable by the bad oral
hygiene hovering about them each working day. And they could have been
medical doctors. Really, they could've.

The dentist who treated my family during my teenage years had me
convinced that I had empathic powers. His miserable sighs as he entered
the room; the dejection in his sad eyes; even his ill-fitting plaid
shirts and old corduroy pants - all of it made me see a man who had
better things to accomplish. I have brief memories of my childhood
dentist, his office situated between a hair salon and a sandwich shop
in a faded strip mall; even his magazines were hopelessly outdated.
Now, as an adult, I'm quick to notice the brusque, almost rude manner
of the dentists I visit. They snap at their assistants, move about the
room on their wheeled chairs a bit too aggressively, and park their
mid-life-crisis sports cars in spaces aptly marked, "RESERVED."

Thus my dilemma, which is the spooky similarity between dentists and
myself. I step into their offices and instantly I am consumed by what
might have been. I could be on the New York Times bestseller list for
twelve weeks straight and still feel as if I haven't reached my maximum
potential. I could save a whole building of people from a fire, then go
to bed thinking about that poor cat meowing pitifully through the
smoke. "Coulda-woulda-shoulda" is my mantra.

I am a thirty-three year old man who has spent most of his adult life
avoiding dentists because they make me feel like a failure. Whether my
gross generalizations of the dental field are true or not is beside the
point - it's the absurdity of this realization that gets to me. Other
people feel this way when they meet up with a successful friend; or
when they look through old pictures and see their younger selves; or
when they listen to music that spurs memories of happier times. Not me
- it takes the smell of antiseptic, the sound of a drill, and a table
covered in People magazines to put me right back on the ladder's lowest
rung.

Perhaps I need to start thinking of dentists in cheerier terms. "Ah,
our friend the dentist," I'll say, "A brave soul, willing to risk his
nimble fingers for those less scrupulous than he. His face is the very
beacon that steers us from the plaque-y rocks and towards a brighter,
healthier smile. All hale this master purveyor of the self-irrigating
spittoon!"

Or maybe not.