BIg Dumb Science Brain
People tend to ask me rather frequently why I chose to be a graphic designer. Most of the time, I just tell them that I really enjoy the work, or that I wouldn't have made it through college if I had gone into business or sport sciences or underwater basket weaving. But really, it had a lot to do with wanting to go into animation and that education being too expensive and mainly seeing my mom go into tiny conniptions when she found out how much school was going to cost. Something else in there had to do with not getting the 'college experience', which I would hope meant going to the football games, pledging sororities and having regular class schedules but actually meant getting so schmammered drunk that you couldn't remember the party the night before, waking up in the same clothes and running to class hoping that no one realized you were basically still in an alcohol induced state and wasting your scholarship. But who knows, I really didn't party much in school.
I'd like to believe that the real reason was that it was my dentist's fault.
When I was six, I decided I wanted to be a dentist. I don't know why. My dentist was elderly and creeped me out, so it's not like I was dying to turn into him. The only good thing about going to the dentist was afterwards, I would get to choose three stickers and a lollipop that I wasn't even allowed to eat until later because of the fluoride. I think I was just curious enough about that specific profession that I thought I would be willing to spend 10 years in college just to figure it out. And possibly because it was the first job I could think of that no one else had said yet when my kindergarten teacher asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I liked to be different. Big surprise there.
That was until I turned nine and had to have two teeth pulled.
It was like any normal dentist visit, however normal those can be. I'm pretty sure that 'normal' can't ever qualify for anything where someone sticks their hands in your mouth. Come to think of it, I don’t know why I would ever have wanted a job sticking my hands in people mouths.
He finished the check up and then said "Okay, I’ll be back with your shots."
Say. What.
NOT good for a nine year old that is terrified of needles.
Not to mention, I was positive in my nine year old head that if such impending doom was to come down on my mouth, I should have at least been forewarned by my mother. Who didn't warn me.
Thanks Mom.
So anyway, it took the hygienist, my mom and the dentist holding me down while I frantically tried to escape when I suddenly remembered the nurse talking to us about needles at school three days before and I should ask to see the needle. I honestly couldn't tell you why, something about being able to see...something...on the...needle or....uh...anyway...
So I'm sure I sounded like a COMPLETE psycho when I went "AGHA AGH AGH AGH CAN I SEE THE NEEDLE??? AAAGHAHGHAAA!!" My dentist probably took that in turn to mean that I was some freaky kid with unrealized fetish for sharp objects.
He told me it was too small to see and in turn jammed my mouth back open. Logic tells you if you can't see something, it couldn't possibly hurt as much as that dagger they stab you with at the REAL doctor's office.
Nope. All lies.
The sheer pain of a needle in my gums was enough to send me into terror filled rage where I screamed and cried until he stopped. Then, when the hygienist handed me a tissue to blow my nose (due to the crying of course), my nose felt like it took up my whole face. Apparently, having a body parted numbed makes it feel massive. And the look on my face must have been completely priceless, because SHE LAUGHED AT ME. All I could think was how I wanted to kick her in her knee and hopefully get her white pants dirty.
After that, the dentist comes in with pliers. It may have been my foggy, terrified, nine-year-old memories, but I'm pretty sure that he got off them off the clearance rack at some rickety hardware store that only sells rusty chains saws, barbed chain and those retched pliers. He started explaining how he pulls out a tooth. I don't remember the specific medical details, but he kept saying something about twistandpush. At this point, I just wanted my damn sugar-free lollipop and stickers. He proceeded to grab the darn tooth, and just like he said, twistandpush. The only way I can describe the sound was that someone was taking a grill brush to asphalt, but it only took two twistandpushes to get the first tooth out. Then he moved to the second one. And on the first push, I felt a twinge of pain. Somehow, that stupid tiny needle that I couldn't see but sure as heck could feel hadn't pushed enough meds into my tiny nine-year-old gums to make any ounce of pain completely disappear and I was NOT about to ask for more. So amid the twistandpushes and the grinding grill brush on asphalt noises, I, in painful silence, let him yank the second tooth out. I was extremely proud of myself that, between the time I had cried and screamed about the tiny needle to the time I had that tooth pulled, I had built up a pain tolerance of a superhero.
They let me take my teeth and when I got home, I finally looked at them. They were LONG. The roots were still attached I guess, but I couldn't believe that something that was almost an inch longer than I expected used to be all up in my face. That and the spots where they used to be were black. Black equals huge gaping hole, right? So I did what any smart nine-year-old would do: I tried shoving them back in. That pain tolerance I had built up earlier had apparently vanished.
Lucky for me, Toy Story came out that same year, and I didn't want to be a dentist anymore.
And then I showed my parents how much animation school cost and they had a conniption fit.
And now I design pretty things.