When we lived in LA, I went to a very nice dentist. She was a gentle, kind soul. The type of person who felt genuinely uncomfortable about how terrified I am of her.
So, when the children’s dentist (I’m pretty sure she elected the children’s dentist because she was the absolute least threatening person on staff), who looked about 12 years old, pulled me aside and started talking about the bruising on my neck, I admit, I felt a little shy. I told her my boyfriend did it, that I try to tell him to keep under my clothes line, but sometimes he gets carried away, you know how it is. And she just about died in front of me.
At first, I didn’t know why she was so upset. Then it finally dawned on me and I started laughing hysterically, which is probably the absolute wrong message to send. Then I had to try and explain that the bruises were hickies and not evidence of a choke-fest at casa Martinez.
The awkwardness was compounded by the fact that she either couldn’t understand me when I said “hickie” while cackling with laughter, or she wasn’t familiar with the term because then I had to explain the exact mechanical process of one person giving another person a love bite, up to and including the circumstances therein.
Then she was the embarrassed one. It was kind of adorable.