My father was a dentist (my only dentist) until I was 29 years old. When I tell that to most people they say something about “I bet you were never able to eat candy,” or, ” I bet you’re awesome at flossing.” Neither are even remotely close to the truth. In fact, we never made appointments. We never had teeth cleaning. The only time I got work done was the middle of the night when I had a tooth ache. Well, maybe that’s not the only time…. but it was close. And I remember more than once my Dad “numbing” up a tooth between early morning seminary and school (in the car). But, I digress.
When I joined the ranks of real adulthood a few years back, I got giddy with excitement about the chance to get my teeth cleaned regularly, and have insurance pay for it. I’m almost a nerd about it. Ok, I am a nerd about it. I refuse to miss the appointment. I brag that I went, and like to act like people should even care. But for me, I really do care. Cause, I’m a real grown-up that gets me teeth cleaned. Twice a year. Take that, yo.
So today was my bi-annual cleaning and it went splendidly… until the end. The hygienist (we will call her Shirley) asked me if I would “like a fluoride treatment.” I said, “yes,” because duh…I’m a grown-up. Responsible grown-ups get fluoride treatments. It’s in the handbook. Then Shirley told me that their office was now using the “paint-on” fluoride, and that I was “going to love it.”
Guys. Shirley lied. hardcore. I didn’t’ love it. Not at all even. In fact, it was kind of like hell. For the next six hours my teeth felt like they were wearing sweaters. Individually knit wool sweaters. For my teeth. All of them. And they were mint-esque flavored sweaters that made my Diet Coke taste weird (and french fries, if you must know). That fluoride tried to kill my teeth cleaning buzz….and I’m not going to let it. Ever. And definitely not next time.
And hey, Shirley? Your paint-on fluoride can suck an egg.