Open wide

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.

Green

Jealousy. It's an emotion commonly described as "ugly." While I've always known this classification superficially, I never truly realized the depth of its awfulness. And I certainly didn't do anything to try to subside the emotions. But now I know how unsightly it is. I mean, I'd even go as far to say the J word is as ugly as a hairless Chinese Crested dog ... and those things are beyond ugly.

Jealousy has always been a trait I've known. It's one of many flaws my personality plays home to ... but this is the one that keeps coming back to haunt me. I've come to terms that I'm never going to be perfect, trying to tone down my self-criticism and the desire to strive for such an unattainable, and let's be honest undesirable, status. Cliche as it may be, it's those quirks and flaws that make us who we are. They are what teach us, hopefully, the lessons awaiting throughout our life course.

But every so often, albeit less frequently nowadays, jealousy sneaks up on me. And even when I recognize its attempts to take over any progress I've made, I still witness it's hideous nature seeping in, even if it's ever-so-slightly. And it's a scary feeling.

Whenever I'm presented with a potentially jealous-ridden situation, it starts off small. I tell myself I'm not bothered. I tell myself not to let it take over this time. But somewhere along the way, my brain shuts out any self-control. Any common sense. And my competitive side takes over. Growing up, and somewhat to this day, something latched onto my personality that told me I have to be the best at everything. It's ok when it comes to a little friendly competition. (Except for that time I punched a girl in the face on the soccer field. Different story entirely.) But when it comes to simply being that I have to be better, it takes its toll. Nevermind that I firmly believe that pretty, skinny, stylish and the like are all relative. The moment I'm threatened, whatever the minuscule reason, I revert to old ways. It has caused me to do things I'm not proud of. Things I can now luckily resist. But it doesn't make the pit in my stomach go away. And I can't decide what's worse.