Today I went to the dentist. Before I finally got health insurance this spring, I relied on my good health, put my feet up in the stirrups at Planned Parenthood yearly, and ever so often remembered to have my teeth cleaned. Because I never had a cavity until last year I figured that teeth were low on my super sketchy health care scale of importance.
Well, yeah. They're okay. They do have french roast stained all over the backs and it doesn't want to come off. I know because I gave that dental hygienist a serious workout trying. She finally gave up, left the room to pat her forehead with her surgical mask, replenish some electrolytes, and came back to polish.
Quick question: Why do people talk to you when you have a mouth full of sharp instruments, a hose, and their hands? Furthermore, don't ask questions! My answering is going to end badly.
She was nice, I liked her, and if we were in any position besides her shoving her hands into the back of my throat, I would have talked to her. Instead I just raised my eyebrows.
I now know that I need to brush my teeth gently for a couple of minutes every night, not attack them violently for thirty seconds. If you look at my and Matthew's toothbrush in the cup in the bathroom, his is the one that looks almost new even though he brushes religiously. Mine is the one whose bristles are flattened and bent at a ninety degree angle. And evidently if you take a good look at my gums, mine are receding because I am brushing them straight into oblivion.
Maybe, in light of that, it's not quite as bad that I'm also GRINDING MY TEETH AWAY. They are becoming flat, I am told. My theory is that I've adapted this habit to compensate for the gums situation. Do I really want to have tiny gums and long teeth when I'm an old lady? Hard to say.
Either way, I signed up for a bite guard, an acrylic piece I'll wear in my mouth at night and hoo-boy is Matthew going to be pumped. My bite guard is sure to make for some hot make out sessions.