The Waterboard

I was waterboarded Thursday. This was not at all the same as that fun water slide in southern New Hampshire—it was a deep cleaning to fix what my hygienist Val said is an unusually rapid escalation of tartar and a few gray teeth that need a looksie. “Do you smoke?” she said.  I don’t, I mean like ever, but I felt like she didn’t believe me, so I crumbled because she was holding that pick axe and said “I’ve inhaled 2nd hand smoke.” The questions kept coming: “do you eat potato chips in your sandwiches?” I said I didn’t because her tone was sort of accusatory, but of course I do, I mean what other way to eat a sandwich. “Did you eat M&Ms in a container of cool whip when you were a kid?”  I mean, c’mon! How could she possibly know this? That was like 40 years ago. And stringing together the logic and intent behind her questions was baffling. “You’re a psychic-hygienist, aren’t you?”  I was actually feeling optimistic going into the exam – she put this nice high definition TV within inches of my face as I nestled into one of those 1980s-style Brookstone massage chairs. I’m like, great, I’m going to get to watch the first round of the PGA tournament while this nice lady brushes my teeth.  Pretty soon I was under water with Val standing over me playing what felt like a game of Twister in my mouth.  She sprinkled in a “so are you going anywhere for vacation this summer” question to which I said “%^!$%^” and gave a thumbs up. My favorite part of the entire session was the crying. That’s when you know you’re hurting and mine as well surrender, though I couldn’t exactly decipher the tears from the water spraying out of my mouth. If we’re being honest, I felt like I was in a dystopian movie. I was Thomas in the Maze Runner – under interrogation as my teeth and gums were part of a plan to save society.  I came up for air as Val showed me each tooth on the TV screen.  “This tooth #17 is cracked from the filling, this one is a wisdom tooth and needs to go.” It was a like a cruel adult version of this little piggy went to market. I could have used a few Tim Whatley jokes from Seinfeld to help me survive. At least my wife was happy I went.  I told her I wish there were a way to prevent all this, some sort of device that can keep the plaque off and avoid all this invasive stabbing.  “It’s called a toothbrush,” she said.  Pretty sure that was invented in like 3000 BC, as in before Jesus Christ, which I will confess was a lot of what I was saying to myself while I was being water boarded.  But, to practice what I preach, I’ll be back next week…another copay in my pocket and stress ball in hand…