A matter of perspective

Now my dentist is a cool kind of guy as long as I see him in street clothes with a cell phone. But this is how I’ll see him at 8:00 tomorrow morning. He knows me well enough to not be offended when my knees shake, my hands sweat and worst of all my teeth chatter because I’m scared out of my skin to be strapped down with my mouth wedged open as he looms over me with big ugly tools and those weird glasses.
“It’s your occupation that painfully scares me,” I keep telling him, when I can. He just tells me over and over again, “It will be over in just a minute.” But it’s always another minute.
From his perspective, perhaps it is only a minute, but from mine, it’s at least an eternity before I’m out of there for another six months.