As a child, I never dreaded going to the dentist’s or doctor’s office. I willingly went. No whining. No push back. No hiding in the closet crying that I didn’t want to go. In fact, I looked forward to going because the dentist had an assortment of these to play with:
I loved Little People sets. I did not have Little People at home, and so my only access to them was in various professional offices in town. My dentist’s office had the parking garage which I was particularly fond of. That cranking lift, the ding when you got to the top, the roped gas pump and those smug little smiles on the plastic people provided me with much fun and happiness. That happiness was conditioned or paired with the office/dentist that by the time it was my turn to sit in the ominous chair it couldn’t possibly be a bad thing. I saw the dentist as being fun! Putting scary instruments in my mouth was tolerable (which, for those who know my oral texture sensitivities, this was a big deal). The procedure was over and I still liked the guy. He was alright. He had cool toys for me to play with!
As my parents handled the bill with the receptionist, I could sneak in one last crank of the lift and a push of the car down the ramp! Come back in 6 months? Yes please.
Simon and Garfunkel show up for a little pairing: http://tmblr.co/Z-t1fxCvwzyh