dentistry and dancing
Going to a dance has shown itself to be remarkably similar to visiting a dentist. Before the event there is nervous tension, You are aware, vaguely, that you have not brushed, flossed, or practiced swing dancing nearly enough. You arrive, alone, fearful. For most of your life your mother dragged you to such events, now you are here of your own accord. Why? Would it not be better to have rotten teeth, or remain in an un-humiliated isolated state. But now it is too late to turn back, the nurse has called your name, you approach opposite sex and lead them on to the floor. There is awkward small talk with your partner, the nurse asks you questions about your life and you answer with yes and no’s. You are not normally such a bore, but you are agitated by the coming examination, operation, performance which will soon take place. It begins, you desperately think of all the things that could go wrong. Right foot, left foot, didn’t I feel a hole in my tooth last week? You think. The dentist and partner ask more probing questions, but you are occupied with the task at hand, vaguely you wonder if they are genuinely interested, or enjoy seeing people struggle to answer questions while their heads and mouths are full. You find yourself praying, "God if I make it out alive I swear I’ll brush my teeth five times a day, floss, and really learn how to dance."
The examination ends, you are sweaty, shaken, knowing in your heart you’ve performed badly. It will mean a root canal or social exile. You failed to answer the dentist's question about your most passionate desires and where they might lead you. Your dance partners surely think of you as a bumbling fool who doesn’t brush his teeth enough.
It ends now, you are either released from the dentist for another half year or forced to come back for an even more painful examination. Yet the dancer must continue. There are partners to dance with, scattered small talk to endure. I find I prefer the dentist to the dancer.
