That being said, I would like to immediately make it known that I like my dentist. But good dentist or not, a visit to their office is no walk in the park. I liken it to volunteering to have your fingernails ripped out. And PAYING for it. And that’s exactly where I found myself last week.
I exited the office looking like I’d just tangled with that 8th-grade girl who threatened to beat me up after swim class, minus the chlorine-soaked swimsuit. Reading over my instructions to eat only soft foods for the next 48 hours, I jumped at the chance to suck down a milkshake. Liquid lunch, loaded with fat grams, and no guilt…after all, doctor’s orders.
I pull up to the drive-thru window, hear the request for my order, and proceed to rattle off which fat-laden flavor would suit me best:
Me: Yesth, I’d like a cookiesth-and-cweam milksthake, pleasth. With no whipped cweam.
Speaker guy: Um, excuse me?
Me: Yesssth. A cookiesth-and-cweam milksthake…no whipped cweam. Pleasth.
Speaker guy: Yeah…uhhh…I can’t really understand you. Would you mind pulling around?
Mind? Oh, not at all. Nothing embarrassing about having you see me face-to-face and sounding like I still suck my thumb. And so I do, and thank you for not laughing, Speaker Guy, at least not until I pulled away with my shake in hand. I proceeded to take a bite with the provided spoon, miss my numb mouth by a good mile, and watch the shake dribble down my sweater. That’s when I realized something very important.
Should’ve asked for a bib.