Thirty-Nine Minutes and Four Teeth

(Dedicated to Debra on the Occasion of Her Birthday. She probably flosses.)

I spend forty-five minutes in the chair at the dentist’s office, five minutes with the dentist and forty with the hygienist. The hygienist spends thirty-nine of those forty minutes scraping away at the same four teeth. My lower incisors. The backs and, in particular, the spaces in between. That’s where the plaque and tartar form, under my tongue and behind my front teeth, an oral waste bucket for all manner of microscopic food bits to collect and turn themselves into cement. Design flaw? Who knows. But those four teeth, that spot in my mouth, is what leaves me wanting to run screaming from the chair every time, bib flying. 

I’ve had various insurrectionist thoughts over the years. Is plaque really all that bad? Couldn’t it just stay? Is it really bothering anyone? Isn’t it harder on teeth to yank it off? It feels like it might be. Wouldn’t it be better to just take a bit off the top and leave the rest? Like hair? Give it a trim?

It’s removal is not painful although I now know I would not make a good candidate for a tattoo. That relentless poking. The prodding. One spot hammered away at over and over. I want it to be done at the ten minute mark but we have twenty-nine to go. Twenty. Nine. By the time the hygienist is finished I’ve convinced myself that the amount of picking has less to do with plaque and tartar and more to do with billing and budgeting. I’ve been scheduled for three units of cleaning, three fifteen minute periods, at a price of x per unit, and that’s what I’ll damn well get. Any less and the profit margin suffers. But this is cynical of me. I love my dentist. I’d have my insurance company pay her anything she wanted. I’ve told her she can’t die or retire before me because then where would my teeth be.

The truth is I’ve brought the chiseling on myself. I’m the reason I need three units. The hygienist has told me what I can do to help. Your brushing is effective, she says, but you should floss more. Yes, mooooooooom, I think to myself, OK, moooooooooom. There aren’t many mom-shoulds left in my life but this one remains. I accept that plaque and tartar left unchecked will speed decay. I accept that the hygienist is only doing her job. I accept that the thirty-nine minutes spent on four teeth is my own fault. So why don’t I floss? There’s always that few days immediately following a visit when I’m full of resolve but I invariably run aground. I’m too tired. It’s too icky. I don’t want to put my fingers in there. But this time I’ve found a solution.

I’ve decided that since it’s always the same four teeth that hog all the attention those are the teeth I’ll floss. I’ll spot-floss. They’re easy to get at and I’m in and out in a flash. Even I should be able to keep this up. My central incisors, two, my lateral incisors, two, and the spaces in between, five. Lowers only, no uppers. And maybe every other day I’ll throw in my canines, two. And, who knows, maybe I’ll even do all thirty-two on occasion.

I tried it last night for the first time. Works like a charm. I’m in, I’m out. Six inches of floss; not only was it faster but I saved money! And since I obsess about the possibility of animals getting tangled and strangled at landfill sites in masses of discarded floss, the cause of wildlife protection is served. 

It’s early days, day two, in fact, so I’ll let you know how it goes. I have high hopes. I look forward to my next dental visit. Won’t the hygienist be impressed, I think, Won’t she be proud. You’re flossing, she’ll say. Like a boss, I’ll say. Like. A. Boss.