I went to the dentist the other day for a routine cleaning (no cavities). My hygienist’s name is Alison and that’s all I know about her. My dentist, though, the guy who only sees me for 60-seconds every 6-months? Well I know his full name. My regular doctor? The same. With my dental hygienist, all I know is Alison. A couple of things I’ve been able to infer: 1) I think she’s somewhere around my age. She could be a little older or younger than me but around the same age as me. 2) She lives in or around Worcester. (Side note: though I live in Boston now, I drive 45 minutes to my dentist because I’m afraid of change.)
I’m a relatively calm person at the dentist, I take pretty good care of my teeth and don’t mind all the metal tools prodding at my gums. This leaves me with a lot of time to lay there and think. Alison knows all about me; my full name, where I live, my date-of-birth, my face (she’s pretty much always wearing that mask that keeps us from getting each other sick). I just wonder how someone around my same age that lives in the area I grew up in couldn’t possibly have some mutual friends in common with me or maybe I’ve even met Alison at a party or a bar or something in the past. She might even recognize me from some place but I’d have no clue. My name is somewhat memorable and don’t get me started on the fact that I have dimples (my real calling card).
Now that I got all that out there, Alison, I just want you know it’s okay if when I see you in 6-months, you can tell me you like my blog.
Hello internet. I’m alive. I just moved to Brooklyn and spent the last month worry about and preparing for that, and I’ll write about it someday, but for now I’m