And now for a popular opinion. I hate going to the dentist.

I hate going to the dentist so much, I never go. I mean, I just don’t go. Screw that. Unfortunately, certain habits seem to run counter to my dentist avoidance plans.

As a kid, I was a regular at the dentist’s office. I could practically fill my own cavities by the time I was eleven, which unfortunately for me, was the year I got hit by a car for the first time (two incidents total, and counting) and learned the joys of root canal. So you see, I have accumulated some serious chair time at the ole’ DDS’ house.

I hate them, natch.

Now that I am an adult (chronologically speaking, not in terms of emotional development), I go to the dentist when I have pain, and that’s it. Prior to this month, my last visit was about seven years ago. I brush, I occasionally floss; leave me alone is how I feel about it. But all streaks must come to an end, and a couple weeks ago I started experiencing regular pain in one area, and I just knew it was time. My co-worker referred me to his dentist, who turned out to be some kind of mastermind, because I just had a cavity filled and experienced absolutely no pain. This is a first. I love this man. I will actually go back there for cleanings every six months. (At least that’s my position right now.) I have emerged from the comfy chair of pain unscathed, and I have a new lease on life!

But my recent visits to the enamel hellhole have drummed up so many thoughts I had to share: