For the past year or so I have been super good about my dental care. I mean, really super good. I brush at least twice a day (of course, that's always been a no-brainer for me, and I am sad to learn that it is not the same for many guys), and I floss daily. Actually daily. It's at the point now that if I skip a day my mouth feels all gross when I go to bed, which, I feel, is a good place to be when it comes to dental hygiene.
I was kind of looking forward to my last dentist appointment as a result. No more squirming around when they ask me about flossing, saying things like "I try to as much as I can" or "I used to floss every day..." - nope, I actually can confidently say that I floss every single day (almost) without fail. Plus, what with my superior dental hygiene skills, the visit was sure to be a breeze, right?
Turns out, wrong. It all started off well. I sat down and the hygienist (who I am also sort of friends with because we're both young artist-types and she is good friends with a friend of mine, which results in a lot of attempts at conversation while she's got her hands in my mouth) commented that my teeth looked really great. "Success!" I thought. |-"I have won at dentisting!"
Then she proceeded to poke, scrape, and otherwise torture my poor little gums for 45 minutes, occasionally commented again at how great my teeth were.
It was a confusing and demystifying experience. No matter how many times she said my teeth looked great, with each stab I felt more and more sure they must be horrible, disgusting, worthless hunks of calcium.
Then at the end part of the visit when you chat with the actual dentist about the state of your teeth (where last time he saw me he warned me that gingivitis was nigh), he said that my teeth were in such great shape the only thing he could recommend was whitening.
Post a Comment