is a bad time to woo a woman. Loyal readers will remember the Toothy Chair from about a week ago. Bad news: I had a cavity. And wouldn't you know it? My dental hygienist today was a 20-something-year-old cutie.
Meeting women is hard enough, but the deck is stacked against me further when I'm trying to court the woman who is scraping Snickers from between my teeth.
The very act of having a cavity says, "I am unable to handle the responsibilities of my personal hygiene." I mean, the average person doesn't care about teeth as long as they aren't meth-addict teeth. But the dental hygienist? Teeth cleanliness is her livelihood. As soon as she read my chart, "Mr. Rhapsode - Cavity" she knew I was incapable of a mature relationship.
While actually having the procedure, I'm lying parallel to the ground with her hovering over me. This is not a flattering angle. I'm not saying I have an over abundance of boogers, but if I happened to have one, she would be staring at it for a good hour while the dentist drills my face. My hair gets all rumpled from the napkin covered headrest, and the bright lamp dangling above reveals my bumpy complexion.
And to cap off my first impression, she tells me to "rinse and spit" into that tiny sink while half my face droops from the numbness. I sip the water slowly and purse my lips—or so I think. But of course, spit, water, and tooth shavings dribble out of my mouth and onto my shirt. She chuckles a motherly laugh and dabs up the pathetic mess with my dental bib. Smooth.
Needless to say, I'll be eating dinner alone this Saturday night.
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