The Plague Of Plaque

I hate going to the dentist.  Hate.  It.  It's a place where you voluntarily go to be demeaned and tortured, and sometimes even pay for the privilege.

"So, Nona, tell me about your flossing habits-- are you a regular flosser?"

I've attempted to stretch the truth on this subject before, but I have come to see the absolute futility of it.  So I answer truthfully-- perhaps too truthfully.

"Nope. I only floss once or twice a week.  Or if I've eaten chicken or popcorn in the last 24-hours."  I feel like I'm on the losing side of a confessional.

"Well, you should really floss every night."

"I know."  I shrug my shoulders as if to say, "So, what are you gonna do about it?"  But my smile is so sweet I catch her off guard.

I mean, I realize that ideally I should floss every night, but there's only one person I know who is that anally dedicated; my father.  That man is superhuman (and frankly, weird).

But my hygienist pays me back for my wayward oral health with a little torture device known as the "water flosser".  In short, this tool turns a benign stream of water into a sharp needle that emits a piercing supersonic shriek as it stabs the gums between your teeth over and over and over again.  I want to raise the white flag in surrender.

But I also realized something interesting during my brief stint in the dental chair this time.  Hygienists speak "Wide Open Mouth" fluently.  It is not an easy language to learn, I assure you.  I wonder if it's a required class in dental school?  Why else would they purposely try to create conversation with you while your mouth is stretched to maximum capacity with various implements shoved inside it?  It's amazing to me.

"Did you have a nice Christmas, Nona?"

"Uhh-huh, eh ah ary i."

"Oh, good! Do you have family in town?"

"Uhh-huh, ari an I ha our alies ere."

"That's so nice you both have family here.  Oops!  Looks like we have a bleeder there!  You might want to concentrate more on this area when brushing and flossing."

"O-keh."

"Good.  Tell me again how old your kids are."

"Uy i ele-en, L-eh i eigh."

"Oh my!  Eleven and eight?  They are growing up so fast!"

"Uhh-huh."

At this point I am silently willing her to stop talking to me.  I just know I'm going to gleek on her.  And that would be mortifying.

But the worst part of the whole ordeal (yes, even worse than the water flosser) is the fluoride rinse.  I'm practically gagging just thinking about it right now.  I would like to know how valuable it truly is to rinse with fluoride for 60 seconds twice a year.  Is it making such a significant difference in my oral health that I should feel obligated to subject myself to this sort of nauseating torture?  Someone, please tell me why I do this.

But the highlight of going to the dentist?  When it's all over and I realize I don't have to come back for another six months.  And guess what?  I haven't had a filling in ten years.  Take that, you sadist flossing-nazi hygienist!