I went to the dentist today. It's a new dentist for Eric and me. Our old dentist retired this year. When he looked at my X-rays, he commented on how good my bone depth was.
"How old are you?" he asked.
"31," I replied.
"Oh, a baby!"
And when I thought about my age in terms of my teeth, I agreed with him. I hope to live past 80 years of age. And so I haven't even reached the half-way mark of my relationship with my teeth. I should probably floss more.
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A space for reflection, insight, and musing on life.
4 comments:
I have a conflicted relationship with my teeth. I rarely brush at night, but I hate cleaning dentures of patients.
By the way, your blog is more interesting than most I've recently read. You capture my attention.
Ever since I was a child, I have been neurotic about my teeth. Whenever I have true anxiety about anything in my life, I begin having nightmares about them falling out. When I got my wisdom teeth out in my mid-twenties, I said prayers to my body apologizing for its loss. And I can barely stand to think about having a cavity because it makes me feel like such a failure. My first cavity was last year and I think my dental hygienist thought I was a real fruitcake because of how much emotional processing I needed to do. When she and the dentist told me I had cavities, I got very silent and serious and finally said, "I feel like a terrible person."
Firefly, I love how you validate and laugh at yourself at the same time.
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