To continue on with my obnoxious self-absorption, I’m pleased to announce that my teeth are in fine working order. I have one teeny-tiny cavity (which is truly a minor miracle given the amount of candy I eat and wine I drink) which will be filled on Monday. The hygenist did not, as predicted, get on my case about my aggressive brushing, rather she said, “We’ll get along just fine. I like people who are obsessive about brushing.”
The dentist and hygenist both agreed that my gums are not bad at all and that I do not, at this juncture, need to worry about becoming a wizened, toothless old crone before I hit the age of 40.
This news was of great comfort to me. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve awoken in the middle of the night worried about my front teeth falling out. Worried that I would have to walk around with clacking dentures, using polident and worrying over poppy seeds getting underneath the bridge, and keeping my teeth in a little cup on my nightstand while I slept.