The Waiting Room

I've got no dental insurance and although I could use this forum as a place to rant and rave about my feelings over this country's brain aneurisms when it comes to voting for universal health care.... I'll spare you, dear reader, from the diatribe that I could express over my anger about getting medical bills from the doctor's appointments I had to make in order to stay healthy so that I won't need to suck more resources out of the system later if I didn't get checked in the first place. Those lobbyists/lawyers/politicians who opposed health coverage for all, need to live in an apartment in the middle of poop-slick Brooklyn with a couple mid-twenty-something's who are no longer covered by Daddy's insurance, have about 80K in debt to their college and are paying half of what they make a month at their menial day job to their rent for a couple months and then let's see how those lawyers and politicians feel about helping a brotha' out with some damn health care.

But, I'm not here to rant....

Instead, I took matters into my own hands. Being that it's been about two years since anyone's looked at my teeth, I made an appointment at NYU's school of dentistry. Why? It's cheaper than a regular dentist and they'll take the scum of the earth who have no dental coverage (i.e.: Me.).

I grew up in Manhattan covered by a pretty cushy Park Avenue, corporate America health plan that my father's job so graciously allowed my sorry under-age-ass to be covered by. I spent my younger years going to Madison Avenue "Dental Spas" where women wearing too much perfume greeted you at the door after you were buzzed in "Hello, Ms. Allen. You're right on time for your 3 o'clock". The kind of dental offices where if one were to run 40 minutes late, it's OK, because your insurance provider is paying the dentist a pound of flesh and a bag of gold for you to be there in the first place; they'll accommodate! These white and pink offices with the flat screen TV's playing re-runs of Oprah and the "personal massage" waiting-room chairs were the kind of places I have come to expect when visiting the dentist. And, after a prompt visit, I leave with a goody bag full of dental floss and a squeaky clean feeling mouth.

So, when I showed up at the reception desk at the NYU Dental building I was greeted with a completely different experience.

"Hi! I'm here for my 1:15 appointment!" Woah. Am I in the right place? That bum in the corner is the same one I saw begging for change on the F train last week. 
"Who are you?"
"Um. Natalie Allen?" Where's the Oprah and the water tanks full of colorful fish?
"Do you have any insurance provider, Ms. Allen?"
"No. I have health insurance, but otherwise I'm screwed, which is why I'm here." But, I'll bet you didn't know I have an iPhone 5. Ok? I'm normal!
"OK. Then I'll need you to sign these forms for me and then you'll be called to discuss payment plans in a minute."
"Great. Thanks!" I'm broke! But, I want you to think this was a choice! So I'll look really happy to be here. 

The waiting room was a sick teal color and was brightly lit by fluorescent lights. Mario Batali's fat pink cheeks were smiling at me from the only TV in the joint as a cooking show demonstrating how to make sausage on a skillet was playing. I sat down opposite a heavy set, middle-aged man, who looked deeply troubled and was rummaging through his backpack full of empty soda bottles. I tried to concentrate on my medical history survey when I was interrupted by large belching noises the middle aged man was now making. I'm not talking small "whoops, that's a burp!" burps. I'm talking full on belches, and this guy was ripping them like he'd just downed a 1 liter soda bottle. I tried to stay calm and focused, but the  sausage special on TV suddenly pictured a close up of the sizzling brown poop-colored meat in a pan and I wanted to scream.

I'm a middle-class brat. I'll admit it! I'm used to weird men: but in context! Weird men talking to themselves on the subway? Sure! Weirder men taking a dump on the street? Why not? Weird men belching loudly while dropping empty cans of soda on the floor of my dentist's waiting room? Nope! I want out! I pulled out my iPhone 5 to remind me of my roots. And to check the time. I'd been waiting for 45 minutes.

The Belcher was led off to another room by a very young looking man wearing a white coat before my name was called. "Natalia Alleny?" Yup! That's Me!

The examination room was also in a brightly lit fluorescent space with no windows. My cubical was just barely big enough for my examination chair and the three medical students who jammed themselves into the space after I sat down. I was poked, prodded, biffed, bopped, and rubbed by the time the "real" dentist (let's call him Dr. Langly) showed up and did the same thing again. "Got to make sure the exam was thorough" Dr. Langly said after looking into my mouth and slathering my saliva all over my face with his loose latex gloves that flapped spit every time he moved his hands to reposition my head.

I was told I might have a cavity. "Oh, no, wait..." I don't. I may have a cracked tooth! "Um, actually, sorry, you don't," and: "How long have you had that gap in your teeth!? Whoops. Gotcha, doctor, not a big deal, OK". The medical students seemed eager to find something wrong. "What about this, doctor?" They'd ask, excitedly pointing to my x-rays. "Is that cancer!?"

"Doesn't look like anything to worry about." Dr. Langly would reply, looking at the slides while scratching his eyebrow.

I left the building 3 hours later. The whole thing cost 95 bucks and a pint of saliva. I walked back to the subway and thought about my life. My teeth didn't feel cleaner, I was scheduled to have a cleaning next week. I felt annoyed and grateful. Annoyed that this was the option I had at the moment, and grateful that I even had an option. My health insurance ends once I turn 26 in September and then I'll have to start getting creative about who gets to assess the health of my vagina (shouldn't they be paying me? I mean, c'mon!) Or, maybe I'll flip this country the "bird" and go to Australia where I can get health insurance there for little to no cost. I shudder to think about the alternatives of having no coverage; I may be young and healthy, but I've been known to break my nose and get sick every now and then and the last thing I need is to join the ranks of the impoverished Brooklynite-20-somethings with 80K in debt from my medical bills and no voice in the government.

I have another date with the dentist next week.

Betrayal.

Is thinking about Betrayal constructive, or destructive?

I guess from my perspective: It's a constructive thought, to a certain point.

Betrayal is not all black and white. Betrayal could be the horror at knowing a best friend told a deep dark secret, or when an ally isn't at the "meet up point" at the crucial time, or when a lover doesn't return your attempts at contact. There are small betrayals everywhere, all the time, if one looks at life that way: the "I thought I could make that street light and didn't." or "What do you mean you have no more chocolate croissants?" or "I can't believe this ATM is charging me $3.50!" Small betrayals can exist in everyday life, but mostly after the first shock of the experience, one lets that go. Oh, well. Guess today wasn't my lucky day. I think obsessing over how the universe is out to get you because the route you take to get to the train has a construction site on it and you have to take another route, is destructive.

The other bolder, badder betrayals: the ones involving someone else going against your once established trust to do something different, I think, are the ones that could be constructive to think about.

I had a dream last night my Best Friend got up and told a room full of my peers that I had slept with someone I shouldn't have. I was mortified. I started screaming in rage, I was the laughing stock of the room and I felt so helpless in my agony over the idea that the person I trusted top-secret information with went and publicly humiliated me. I woke up with my jaw clenched and my body rigid, like I had just been beaten and was bracing for blows. What a dream to have! That's awful. I would never trust that friend with important information again. I lay away in my jet-lagged, early morning drowsiness and reflected on where in my body I felt the anguish of the betrayal. My heart. What does that mean to wake up to such a tremendous amount of adrenaline and horror on such a beautiful Summer morning in New York? Who knows. Probably not much. That dream was not even rank-able in terms of "think ability" because it was all a drama played out by chemicals in my brain as I dreamt.

Betrayal is scary. It's a fear our inner selves feel from time to time. It's a reminder that the world we live in is never as predictable and safe as we want or believe it could be. I mean, living in fear of it is not something I recommend. That's destructive. But, when a lover doesn't respond to contact attempts and all but falls off the face of the earth... then what? Imagination is the playmate of a break in the norm. scenarios get created and reasons for this and that become established as a brain frantically tries to make sense of the chaos. Real reasons exist: Imagination can come up with a million and more. But, the facts that a person once trusted is no longer meeting your expectations is rough, and an aspect of relationships in the Human experience that no one wants to be a victim to. Thinking about it can be constructive as a coping mechanism. Dwelling on it can be destructive.

Well, the dream made me thoughtful if nothing else... Betrayal is a juicy subject to hear about, but a nasty one to experience.

Spilled Milk

What does one do when the magic disappears? Or, more specifically, what do I do when the magic drains out through some unseen hole in the sidewalk and suddenly I am left making out with a man I am very suddenly not attracted to, on a side street in New York City?

The night went really well! Perfectly... almost. Except, why did I not feel a buzzing, humming feeling of joy and excitement when I looked at Mr. Tall? We went out for dinner at a Thai restaurant and chatted about our days: Yes. wonderful. He's nice and attentive. Great. Liked the friendly laugh he gave me. Check. Oh, he touched my leg! ....Uh...Where's the girly delight?

We walked over to the theatre. He bought tickets to see the Moth Story Telling Slam! WHAT!? That's a wonderful surprise! Check! Oh, he's taken my arm again. How nice, he's such a gentleman. He cares about the fact that I had a headache today. Very Sweet. He's laughing at something I said...uh...Wait. I don't like something here. Why am I not dying to kiss him based on a laugh? Where is the exuberant giddiness that comes from when our eyes meet? Um... CUPID!! Where are you?

We sit down in the Town Hall Theatre on 43rd street. He's got us tickets to a real Broadway event. I love the Moth Storytelling. It's a great experience. He put his hand in mine. That's sweet! He is chatting about the people in the program. Nice. Knows his stuff about the story telling. He's rubbing my back. Like a Boyfriend should, right? ...uh... boyfriend? Did I think that? Do we look like a couple? Maybe that's a good thing. mmmm...no. No, I am not getting a warm fuzzy feeling about that at all, actually. What? Aren't I dying for a boyfriend?!

We go uptown after the fantastic show. He takes me to a cafe for a slice of pie and some jasmin/green tea. We chat about our families. He's so different than me. That's not a bad thing. He's close to his parents. Great. He's into family. Wonderful. I don't care. ...uh... I Don't care? Why don't I care? He's so nice! He really likes me! He really, really likes me. I feel it. But I don't feel the same way I did last time.

We walked out of the cafe and he pulled me in for the kill. I began to kiss him and feel his arms pull me in close. I wanted so badly to want this. I wanted to throw my arms around him with a lover's abandon and give myself over to the romantic street make-out-at-midnight thing that this could have been. But I couldn't make myself feel that. In fact, I felt the opposite. I felt his lips move down my neck and I opened my eyes and looked at the street and felt... nothing. No stir. No "Oh, this feels so nice! And was so badly needed! Take me, I'm yours!" An ambulance squalked by and the lights and noise broke the spell.

Me: Well, I need to go home.

Tall: Ok, It's late. You are taking the train...

Me: Yep.

Tall: It'll take you an hour to get home from here.

Me: Yeah.

Tall: Do you want to go home?

Me: ...uh... What do I say? I want: to want to sleep over. But, the idea of sleeping in my own bed is very appealing. Yeah, I should go home.

Tall: Ok. I have another event planned for our next adventure!

Me: What was that sound? I think my heart just broke... Great! That sounds great!

Tall: Good night, Beautiful.

Me: Good night... (Tall pulls me in for one last kiss) Oh, I feel so mean. So evil. As if I stole Cupid's quiver and snapped each arrow so that all of them were broken on the floor.

I took the train home and while walking back from the station to my apartment I felt lost in thought. I had put on some music so I could let the beats of some monotonous tune drown out the conflicts rattling around in my head. Then suddenly, and without warning I began to laugh. I seriously El Oh Elled. Holy Cow, I thought. I am so very anxious about hurting his feeling that I am inflicting a severe amount of uncomfortable pain on my part. It's not my fault that chemistry was lost between the two of us! It happens. It's nobody's fault. It's OK. He'll get over it. And I learned a lot about what I want from my next relationship. That was good to know. I shouldn't beat myself up. I can listen to the music and enjoy it without guilt associated with everything I do. The remainder of my walk was spent walking to the beat of the song in my ears.