Hot dentists like happy teeth.

Those of you who haven’t been living under a rock somewhere west of central oblivion are probably sick of hearing about health care reform. On the radio the other morning, I listened to a news piece on a band of traveling tea party conservatives, weaving their way across the country in an attempt to undermine the current administration’s efforts to patch up what is, honestly, a defunct, unfair, and twistedly expensive system that is an embarrassment to both the American people and the rest of the world. If I open another newspaper and have to read about Congressman This or Senator That rebuffing wackos at committee meetings or arguing with news anchors on the pros and cons of the current system, I’m going to be sick. Health care, ironically, makes me feel really, really unhealthy.

Despite all the messy politics, I’ve found assurance in one simple fact: I am extremely attracted to medical professionals. This is not a new development. In my short and colorful little life, I’ve had the pleasure of dating one such individual who worked on the gastro-intestinal floor of my university’s hospital (God bless his ill-fated Crocs: the only time I can honestly forgive anyone for wearing such unfortunate footwear. If only I could chronicle the liquids that passed through those neon gummy holes!).

Much like our tax system, computers, and how to pilot anything (airplane, rocket, boat, manual car), I know very little about the health and medical sciences. I couldn’t tell a mitochondria from a nucleoid. I can vaguely remember that chromosomes are involved and that I usually take a couple ibuprofen to cure an especially noxious hangover. If I was a doctor, I’d probably resemble something like this. Yet something draws me to those in the medical field. I’m not sure where this certain attraction comes from as I am usually scared to death of hospitals and buckle at the knees at the first sign of blood or anything other than the usual bodily fluids. I can’t remember the last time I was at a hospital and I definitely can’t remember any personal doctors or medical professionals that I’ve been attracted to.

Up until now.

This past summer presented a massive overhaul for my mouth. Having returned from living abroad with a poor water system, I soon discovered, after a quick visit to a dentist, that my teeth were a microcosm of our nation’s health care system: broken, albeit coffee stained and with a slight chip in my front right tooth. After x-rays, poking, prodding, gum bleeding, and a lot of sassy “mhmms” from the dental nurses, I had my prognosis: several cavities, out with all four of my wisdom teeth, and one root canal. Had I received this news from my old family dentist, an aging testament to the last several decades of American dentistry, I would’ve been reeling and fairly pissed off. In other circumstances, all of that would’ve sounded like a whole lot of work, time in the chair, grimacing and gauze. Thankfully, the dentist delivering the dark news about my mouth modifications is incredibly attractive. Dreamy-eyed and sighing, I nodded and smiled. Grinning ear to ear like a schoolgirl, I made four more appointments for the next few months, signing away any extra money I’d be making over the summer to drilling, pulling, cutting, and crowning. I floated out of his office on a small cloud, which delivered me back to my office before my stupor broke and I realized the hellish dental ride I was in for. Anxiety set in and I counted the days until my mouth, one of the most prized possessions for an avid foodie, would undergo massive reconstruction.

I stepped in the door that first day of my dental makeover and already I was rosy cheeked and smiling. My dentist led me back and got down to business twisting, adjusting, and clamping. All while I stared up and counted the tiny chest hairs going rogue and sneaking out of his slightly unbuttoned shirt. Unlike as a child, when I would kick and scream during even the most basic of teeth cleaning sessions, I was now melting into my chair. I wondered if anyone else enjoyed getting a root canal as much as I was then.

The last appointment with Dreamy Dentist was pretty upsetting and I’d like to think the feelings were mutual. As he pulled out my last wisdom tooth (no laughing gas for me, I got to witness firsthand the birthing of my ginormous canines), I think we couldn’t help but mourn the end of our summer together. We talked about meeting up in yoga class, since we both attend the same studio. My mouth filled with bloody cotton, we made small talk and he walked me out. We set up an appointment for a regular cleaning a few months in the future, but I think we both knew it wouldn’t be the same. While I am certain this is all in my head, I can’t help but entertain the notion that we had spent a summer together and my crush had evolved into something of a friendship of sorts. And while I know there is little chance we’d ever meet up outside of his floride-soaked dental world, I liked to think we had connected in some way.

It is also more incentive to floss the hell out of my teeth until our next appointment.