My Dentist Sucks

Today when I was at the dentist, I brought some editing work with me, thinking I could make the most of my time while waiting for the doc. I swear that office reception area is like the physical manifestation of some unsettling celebrity womb--all warm and dimly lit, with available copies of Essence, Out, and Rebook, and a TV on low-volume continuously playing Armageddon.

So twenty minutes later, I'm sitting in a private room, trying to edit pages with my red pen, when my dentist finally arrives. He's there to check out the state of my bruxism (i.e., the gnashing and grinding of my teeth down to stubs) when he casually looks over my papers.

"How are your studies going?" he asks.

"This? Oh, this isn't studying. I'm just doing some editing work." In other words, I'm not a college student.

Unfortunately, he only half gets it. "Ah. So what was your major in college?"

"English." Then to try and drive the point home: "But it's been a while since I was in school."

"Did you get good grades?"

Now I'm confused. "Did I get good grades?"

"Mm hm," he says.

"Um. Yeah. I guess so." Why the fuck do you care?

Okay, so I'm agitated. Normally, I would be flattered by anyone mistaking my age by say, 10 years, but this time was different. This time, it felt condescending, and I wasn't digging the power play. Maybe aging does have its benefits. But while I wait for the deep wrinkles to set in, I'd just like to say, "My dentist sucks."