Say Something!

good dates, bad dates, and a dirty mouth

recent pic of my mouth full

I’d just been dumped the night before, and I thought maybe I should cancel my dentist appointment. Did I really need someone needling my sensitive teeth and shaming me for not flossing enough when I’d just cried myself to sleep?

I ultimately chose to honor the appointment; the hygienist there, a peppy woman in her forties, loved me. And my shattered ego needed the kind of adoration I knew she could offer. Her cheerful greeting didn’t disappoint. She was genuinely happy to see me, and remembered the names of my cats. Her warmth briefly brought me back to life as I kept my breakup info at bay. Let’s keep it rainbows and pleasantry at the dentist’s office today, shall we? No talk of heartbreak or hard feelings for two whole hours. My angelic, maternal hygienist put on her blue rubber gloves and stuck her fingers in my mouth and…

Oh my god. The smell and taste of her gloves, putrid.

I quit breathing, concerned that if I took another inhale I’d gag. 

Clueless, she worked away, cleaning my teeth and chatting, and I registered the exact odor. It was wet dog. A stench unmistakable. These gloves weren’t new; they’d been used on a wet dog. I was certain.

My anxious mind raced. Did someone wash a dirty dog with these gloves? Who washes a dog with gloves unless it’s an especially dirty or sick dog? My inclination to gaslight myself countered my anxious voice: A wet dog, Alix? Why are you so dramatic. You’re no sniff test expert. Maybe it’s just the brand of these gloves. Rubber gloves aren’t known to smell good. And why would a wet dog be in a dentist’s office? Or are you suggesting these rubber gloves have traveled all the way from someone’s home or veterinary hospital to this exact dentist’s office? You sicko. You’re speculating that this sweet responsible woman just, what, picked a diseased dog off the street, used rubber gloves to scrub his pissy body, and then put the gloves in her purse, took them to her place of work, and then just pulled them out to clean your cakehole? Make it make sense, Alix. Make it make sense.

I ultimately decided the origin of the smell didn’t matter. I just needed these di-fucking-sgusting fingers out of my mouth now. But, realizing I needed to speak up, an old wound cemented itself just under my skin, turning me into a three ton corpse. I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t embarrass her, offend her, disappoint her, worry her, make her feel bad, or add an ounce of conflict. The validity of my tactile experience disintegrated right then, and my fractional imagination of what she might think or feel in response to my accusation puppeted my entire being. I could not say one word about it.

But someone in me was screaming. Say something! Please! This is disgusting! Tell her! Say it! PLEASE! SPEAK!

I tried to practice in my head what I could gently say. But in my discomfort the only words that came to mind were, “Gross! Dirty! Stop!” And those words all felt too harsh, like they couldn’t possibly come out of my throat kindly enough. The shame of being someone who can’t speak up for herself added insult to injury. Normal people can speak up. Normal people can communicate. What is wrong with me?

She finally pulled her foul claws out of my mouth. The longest teeth “cleaning” of my life. She made a little joke about her kids being a handful, and I giggled before thanking her. My Oscar worthy performance. She called me “darling,” and the affirmation almost made the taste in my breath all worth it.

This happened in my early twenties. Do we blame my youth? My girlhood in a patriarchy? My rage-aholic dad? My fragility fresh off a breakup?

I wish I could say I haven’t experienced this type of speechlessness since. But I’ve frozen countless times in situations where I “should’ve” spoken up. A date once tried to take off my bra, and instead of vocalizing that I wasn’t ready,