S A L O N +|+ ILL HUMOR+|+ BY IAN SHOALES
The Good Patient
I recently had gum surgery. Boy, was that fun! If you've never had gum surgery, well, all I can say is it sure beats a weeklong trip to Disney World with a family of four from Indiana, and it's priced about the same. It's a fun-packed thrill ride that will leave you numb and finding strange particles in your mouth for weeks. Now, you're probably wondering, "Not that I'm not fascinated by the minutiae of your life or anything, but why are you sharing this with me?" Well, a few weeks before the appointment, my dental hygienist had told me I was a good patient. For a moment, I thought she might have been flirting with me, though it's been my experience that when a woman dons rubber gloves and sticks her fingers in your mouth, it's not generally a prelude to an intimate relationship. I concluded that she was just trying to make me feel better about my perilous gum situation. But then the periodontist, an incessantly jovial man, also told me, as he was removing the stitches, that I was a very good patient. So I guess it must be true. I am a good patient. I find this depressing. What does it mean? That I can stand up to torture with Spartan resolve? I don't think so. It means that I remain relatively motionless and do not scream. It means that I not only submitted meekly to the fingers of strangers, I paid promptly by check for the experience. It means that I am polite. So now I'm known in the dental community as a good patient. It's like getting a medal for good conduct. It's like the principal of the high school singling you out over the public address system for your penmanship. It's like being prompt for all occasions. It's like knowing all the cheers. The good patient opens doors for others, looks both ways before crossing the street, always uses his turn signal before changing lanes. He doesn't hang up on the telemarketer. He says "Thank you" to even the surliest of clerks. He has a cheery hello for everyone he meets. God. Could that be me? Am I helpful? Say it ain't so! Do I look before I leap? Do I disapprove of call waiting? Does nothing make me happier than a shoeshine? Do I secretly think that "Family Circus" is cute? Do I chuckle at "Garfield" when nobody's looking? Do I think "Dilbert" is "too negative"? Do I write letters to the editor about gratuitous violence in Jean-Claude Van Damme movies? Am I in a blissful fugue state? Then I remembered that when I was 11 I'd received a "Certificate of Perfect Attendance" from my Sunday school. And I'd kept it! It's still there, in my stuff! It's got a picture of Jesus on the front of it, blessing me and my attendant ilk. Perfect attendant. Good patient. What happened to the sullen youth who sneered at authority, spent half his time avoiding former girlfriends and creditors and flossed only intermittently? What happened to my dream of becoming a crotchety old man who'd call the police every time a teenager walked in front of the house? I was planning on raging against the dying of the light; I suppose now when it's time to go into that good night I'll just invite Dr. Kevorkian over, step gently over the threshold -- leaving the doc a hefty tip, of course, and a nice thank-you note. I should have seen the handwriting on the wall a couple years ago, when I got a note from Abigail Van Buren telling me that a column I'd written had been a "great upper." An upper? From me? Before you know it, I'll be a motivational speaker at Promise Keepers rallies. I'll marry a real estate developer in Phoenix, adopt more kids than Mia Farrow and Roy Rogers put together and join the Episcopal Church. I'll have personalized pocket protectors. I'll become good at bowling. I'll have "Hi! My name is Ian!" tattooed on my forehead. I'll write a book called "What a Puppy Taught Me About Love." I'll switch to decaf. I'll take up gardening. I'll come to believe that George Will really has something going on. I'll purchase sports memorabilia. I'll savor each page of Reader's Digest. I'll subscribe to Sunset magazine. I'll tune in to Paul Harvey religiously. I'll hum show tunes as I putter about the house. I'll approach life with enthusiasm, perhaps even with relish. I shudder. One final confession, though it pains me to make it: For years I've had a secret desire to own a recreational vehicle. There. It's out in the open. Thank you for paying attention. Have a nice goddamn day.
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