Maybe I need therapy

So there are a couple of phobias I have. Spiders (shiver) are absolutely terrifying from the smallest to the biggest, hairiest one that ever crawled up from the sludge of hell. I will not ride a Ferris Wheel. I don’t care if it’s the smallest one in a kiddie park to that giant Wheel of Death in London. I’m not getting on it and you can’t make me.

And dentists.

On a scale of one to ten I’d give spiders an eleven. Ferris Wheels get a ten. Dentists are at about an eight.

I can deal with a cleaning. I’m not thrilled with it, but I’ll go. I start to get a little more freaked out over the x-rays. Putting that pokey cardboard in my mouth revs up my cortisol levels. Fillings. I don’t even want to THINK about fillings.

I had my six-month cleaning this week. They gave me a reminder call on Monday. It was in my calendar but I’d forgotten all about it. Who the hell remembers something torturous for six months? Not me, I assure you.

So I wake up the morning of my appointment and my anxiety skyrocketed. I went to work for an hour. I kept thinking to myself that I needed to get all my work done in case I died at the dentist’s office. I left for the appointment like a dog headed to the pound to be put down. I forced myself up the stairs and into the office so the perfectly nice girl at the counter could check me in for my appointment with the excessively charming Nazi agent could clean my teeth.

“What’s your name again?” the receptionist asked.

“Bright. Spelled just like you think,” I replied. I resisted the urge to say international selling author.

She kept staring at the computer and then all of a sudden it dawned on me.

It was Wednesday. My appointment is Thursday.

I’m a total idiot and now I have to go through all that torture again.

Absolute moron.