I used to be fine with going to the dentist. I even begged Mum for braces so I could fix my buck teeth when I was 16 years old in the hopes of becoming the next Elle Macpherson.
I did end up with straight teeth but those modelling aspirations never took flight. Two left feet and enjoying food too much were to blame.
I could never afford private health care in my twenties, as I was too busy spending my money on good times, bad men, cheap wine and expensive takeaway.
But I still diligently made the trip to the dentist occasionally and it was no big deal. I think I even enjoyed it at times, as I got to read the latest magazines and have a little rest.
I had really good teeth. Now they seem coffee-stained wino teeth that are oversensitive and just want to be left alone. That sums me up in general these days.
Now, in my forties, the thought of having chainsaws buzzing in my mouth and silver sticks with hooks on the end (their technical name) gashing into my gums makes me so nervous I could run and eat a whole tub of chocolate rocky road ice-cream.
Our lovely Buderim dentist Dr Chris is my long suffering professional who has watched me fall off the rails when it comes to being a reasonable patient.
Now of course I have a tribe of beautiful kids and private health cover, so we can all toddle off to have our check-ups twice a year. Ensuring we go for these check-ups is the only thing that stops me screaming in agony at the cost of health insurance.
So I have to put on this big song and dance about how great the dentist is and how much fun it is. My kids used to be scared of going but now they love it.
While I am pretending to be so excited to be at the dentist, all the while I am silently gagging at those ‘dentisty’ sounds. When the kids are not looking I roll my eyes at Dr Chris and put my finger in my mouth pretending I am going to be sick.
And to top it all off, I had a crown fall out this week because I stupidly ate a hard chewy caramel lolly at work. I work at a radio station and there are always bowls of lollies on offer. My thighs hate these saucers of sin that scream out my name for a little pick-me-up at about 3pm every afternoon.
Well, one bite into the caramel chew and the whole crown came out completely and didn’t I feel stupid? I walked in to see Dr Chris and told the poor lady at the reception before even saying hello: “I will need lots and lots of anaesthetic”.
The crown went back on seamlessly and I could not feel my face for hours. Now, my job is to talk on the radio, so that afternoon shift was probably not my finest work, with a lisp slurring my speech for the majority of the show and my on air partner pointing to my chin to tell me I was dribbling every half hour or so.
On top of that I was kind of off my head on the painkillers. Most weeks I am not too sure how I actually keep my job. But I am glad I have it because I have to help pay for that crazy health cover.
