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Ah, the gamut of emotions associated with the dentist. Here's the range I experienced yesterday, in somewhat chronological order:

Calm. Some people think of their dentist appointment as a pending hour of torture. You'd think I'd share the same sentiments, as mentions of a dentist appointment send memories of me puking in the trash can every single visit, without fail until the age of 14, after fluoride treatment. But instead, that just makes me laugh.

Panic. But just minor moments of it. Riding up the elevator, suddenly brushing twice a day and daily flossing seems like bad hygiene. I just know my doctor is going to tell me I'll have to leave with dentures because the health my teeth are in.

Disgust. Thanks to the nails-on-a-chalkboard sound my dental hygienist procures from scraping my teeth with the tool that looks like Captain Hook mini-me's hand. Seriously, this sound gave me goosebumps on several occasions throughout my cleaning.

Discomfort. No, not from any pain. Just the awkwardness that spans the entire tooth cleaning when attempting not to make eye contact under any circumstances with the lady who's scraping plaque off my (mother of) pearly whites.

Near hysteria. When the hygienist forgets to give me the spit sucker often enough ... 95% sure I will choke on my own saliva and die in a poorly decorated dentist office. I had so much to live for!

Desperate. In my attempts to keep my lips off my teeth when she's polishing them with what feels like chalk.

Pain. Of the burning variety. In my eye. Said chalky polish substance somehow made its way into my ocular area. When asked if I'm ok, or if I need a gauze to get it out, "No.. ish fine. It will fwush out shoon." (Still trying to keep my lips chalk-free.)

Embarrassment. When I think the burp I've been holding in for the last 28 minutes is going to squeak its way out of an air passage. Even that dental mask can't save you from an Italian Sub with onions from Planet Sub. Good luck, lady. (Luckily, the powers that be allowed me to hold it in 'til I reached the sidewalk outside.)

More pain. It doesn't matter how often I floss. (Every night, thank you.) When a professional flosses my teeth for me, it always hurts.

Triumph. When I'm told I'm obviously a good brusher and that I can go out in the world without the need for face-numbing novacaine. A cavity-free visit, my friends.