By Daniel Dunaief
You can’t win.
I don’t have to tell you that. One way or another, in one context or another, you already know.
You see, I floss my teeth religiously. I mean, I don’t do it while praying or to some funky weird sounding music that you might hear in a massage parlor, where they speak in whispers and the room smells like scented candles.
No, my wife and I, and sometimes a good friend or two, will take out floss and work through our teeth. I’m not sure how it became a social activity, but we enjoy it and feel virtuous at the same time.
I’ve become so good at it and it’s become so routine that I know the space, or lack thereof, between my teeth better than I know the back of my hand, which, at the moment is cracking and dry because of the cold air and the dry weather.
I try to suppress a smirk when I go to the dentist and a hygienist tries to work floss between my teeth. I could tell them, like a tooth GPS system, where to go, how hard to push and at what angle.
Sooner or later, they get that piece of floss in between my teeth.
So, now to the you-can’t-win-part. You see, I was flossing my teeth in bed the other day, sitting next to my wife as we navigated back and forth between TV stations, one with a Knicks game and the other with a game show.
Like a concert pianist, I worked the top teeth, gliding along the keys and opening my mouth just enough to get my fingers into position. I use much more floss than my wife, as I wrap rows of floss around my fingers and try not to reuse the same piece between teeth.
After moving to a new section of floss, it was on to the bottom, weaving around the misaligned center of the bottom teeth, which, despite a general straightening thanks to Invisalign from a few years ago, is still unwilling to form a perfect line.
As I got to the bottom left, I gave a tug and, poof! Out came half of a tooth. I thought it might be some larger piece of food that was hiding back there, but, no, the density, size and sharpness on my tongue suggested I shouldn’t swallow it.
“Hey,” I said to my wife, “I just broke a tooth.”
On further review with the piece in my hand, it was clearly a broken tooth.
Flossing, which should be as healthy and helpful as sit ups, stretching or overall general maintenance, shouldn’t be hazardous.
Then again, the previous week, a friend told me he had to have surgery because he brushed his teeth too vigorously. He described how a dentist took a piece of the roof of his mouth and transferred it to his gums. Fortunately, I don’t have the same aggressive brushing technique.
So, the next day, I called my dentist and described the problem. She fit me into her busy schedule.
When she came in the room and asked me to open my mouth, she flinched.
“Yup, that’s going to need a crown,” she offered, trying to keep her voice from reflecting the surprise at the size of the missing piece.
While she was numbing my mouth, a TV next to me was showing a food network competition. That seemed ironic. With a numbed jaw, eating even hours afterwards wasn’t much of an option. Watching people prepare food and hearing critiques of the way the food exploded in their mouths was like driving by a field of magnificent flowers with a bad head cold.
So, now that I’m back from the dentist with a temporary crown and numbness that spreads from my cheek around my lower jaw, I am left to wonder whether flossing is all it’s cracked up to be. Then again, I have had root canal for gum problems. That’s no picnic, either.
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