The other day I went to visit Mr. Dentist Wilson, who could not specifically diagnose the toothache that started bugging me a couple of days ago. I was frustrated there wasn't an established end in sight, but grateful that it wasn't anything needing immediate, drastic attention.
Since I'm now brushing my teeth 27 times a day and using Listerine, my mouth is freaking out. I have sensitive everything--sensitive skin, a temperamental stomach, and definitely sensitive teeth. Needless to say, anything out of the ordinary causes problems.
Finding a sore no doubt brought on by the sudden change in hygiene habit, I thought, "Wouldn't it be nice to be a doctor?? You could know what was wrong with you all the time and could take care of yourself" (even though that's kind of ridiculous and not necessarily true).
Then I had an epiphany about human behavior: there is something comforting about making that journey to the doctor's office, putting faith in that magical thing called medicinal science, and knowing you will be fixed; however, if you're a doctor, that mystical illusion would be unattainable.
Talk about the placebo affect. I'm glad my calling in life isn't doctor.
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