Saved by the skin of my teeth

This morning, Brad and I headed up to Columbus Circle for back-to-back husband-and-wife appointments with the dentist.

Yeah, I know. Waaaaaay too much togetherness, right? I have no idea if other couples go and get their teeth cleaned together -- I'm guessing most don't, if only because schedules don't allow for it -- but I have to admit that it's the sort of thing which, if someone had mentioned it to me a few years ago, I would have probably responded to by laughing derisively and then pretending to vomit in my purse.

So, consider this my mea culpa: as it turns out, it's actually kind of nice to do this thing -- since we would have to do it anyway -- with each other. And our dentist, an incredibly charming and avuncular guy who won my heart at our first visit when he told me that it's totally okay not to floss, seems to get a kick out of us showing up together.

Today's visit was no big deal -- no cavities for either of us, a basic cleaning for me, and for Brad, just a few minor cosmetic adjustments to his front teeth (the goal being to upgrade his status from that of "a very handsome man" to "The Most Handsome Man in New York Unless James McAvoy Happens to Be Visiting".) I went first, then sat in the waiting room and skimmed through a World Cup preview article while Brad took his turn.

About ten minutes had passed, when I heard Dr. S. take a break from what had been an uninterrupted stream-of-consciousness monologue about golfing (because when your customers spend most of their visit with a spit-sucking tube and various scraping implements in their mouths, singlehandedly keeping up the conversation is a very important skill) and say, "Is Kat still here?"

I called back, "Yes?"
"Come here, let's see what you think!"

In the exam room, Brad turned in his chair and grinned at me.
"So," said the dentist, "as you can see, I've just done some temporary bonding here and here, to see how you guys like it."
"Okay," I said.
"And by 'you guys'," he continued, "I mean Kat, because I know it's the wife who makes the decisions about this sort of thing."
Everyone laughed.
"Sounds good," said Brad.

The dentist nodded.
"So, I'll do this for today, and then you can go home and decide whether it looks good. And if you change your mind, or you want something else. we can adjust it. Like, if after a week you feel like it's not long enough..."

Brad snorted.

"...or if you're saying, 'You know, I think it could be a little bigger', we can..."

I snorted, then started giggling. Brad laughed harder and mouthed the words long enough at me behind the dentist's back. I began to wheeze.
Dr. S. stopped talking and stared at us.

"I'm sorry," gasped Brad.
"It's just," I giggled.
The dentist held up his hands. "No, no! It's fine. Whatever you have going on in your personal lives, I don't need to know about it."


Which is probably a good thing, because what I had been about to say -- and what, given the context, would have resulted in a horrific misunderstanding that would put an immediate, embarrassing end to our marital-bonding-via-dentist-visit -- was:

"It's just that we're like a couple of twelve year-old boys."

Because even after the hurried explanation that oh no, I just meant that we have shared sense of humor, I wouldn't have blamed the dentist if he never wanted to have anything to do with either of our mouths ever again.