Having my teeth cleaned has never been one of my favorite activities. The setting and pain involved usually have me imagining that I have somehow been captured by forces of evil who are hell bent on making me suffer for not flossing regularly. Sharp steel instruments and noisy sucking tubes are thrust into my mouth until I gag when I'm not wincing and vice versa.
I can't really report that my most recent teeth cleaning at our new dental office was pleasant. It wasn't. But it certainly went better than other sessions I have had. For one thing, George, the hygienist, kept up a running commentary on what he was doing, making me feel that I was somehow part of the team, not just the specimen under the knife. For another, George used a state-of-the-art ultrasound pick to scrape away much of the plaque around the base of my teeth. And lastly, he was quick. I was out of the office in half the time I've usually had to spend in the chair.
But my gums are still unhappy.
Well, you could always, . . . um . . . what's the word . . . Floss?
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