Oral Fixation.

19 Mar

I tossed out my old toothbrush the other day and replaced it with a new one. I don’t even remember how long I had been using the older one for, which is never a hygienic start (oh well), but I figured, in lieu of the big move, and after disposing of and thinning out the majority of my belongings in spring-cleaning fashion, I may as well put the icing on the cake and swap out the old tooth brush as well. It was an Oral B something or other; medium bristle. I cut my gums open with it today. I guess I haven’t quite broken it in yet. That’s the thing about brand new toothbrushes; you get too anxious and start brushing away like you used to with Old Faithful, except now and for the next month, the bristles are like boar’s hair. You may as well be cleaning your molars with a dog’s slicker brush.

This new toothbrush of mine has a delightfully ergonomic handle though, I’ll tell you that much. My thumb sets perfectly at the base of the handle, snug as a bug on a rug. The technology they put into designing toothbrushes these days blows my mind. Just the other day I found myself in Wal-Mart, perusing through the health and beauty section to pick up a tube of toothpaste. Opposite the wall filled with boxes of toothpaste was an entire aisle filled only with toothbrushes. It was a brightly colored wall of neon greens, hot pinks, bright aqua blues and crisp whites, all screaming together from their tiny plastic packages. I felt like I was at a Hyper Crush concert. Why are there so many options when it comes to purchasing a toothbrush? I felt like I needed a sales representative there to guide me through my options. They’ve got everything from soft to medium bristles, extra-reach, electric—how do I choose?

I’ve never really gotten onto the electric toothbrush wagon. I guess I don’t know what, if anything, I’m missing. I don’t necessarily know if I want to have to charge my toothbrush at night. It’s not a cell phone. This isn’t my laptop computer. Plus, it would take up considerably more room in my makeup bag, as far as traveling is concerned.

Do you ever get a little carried away while brushing your teeth and just stab yourself right in the gums with your toothbrush? I find myself doing this frequently. I’m always really surprised when it happens. It’s like my subconscious is playing tricks on me, and deciding to fence with my mouth.

I brush my teeth at least four times a day. I’m also a tongue-brusher. If you don’t brush your tongue thoroughly when you clean your chops at night, then you may as well just not brush your teeth, period. I’ve got the freshest kisser around, no contest. Enough about teeth.

I never get sick (knock on wood. Kidding. I’m no superstitious loony). Almost never. Maybe once a year, but that’s all. And when I do, I do not seek medical attention. Not once have I had a physical or a regular doctor’s checkup. To my benefit, my father is a family physician, which is convenient for the one time a year I come down with the common cold. Unfortunately, my dad takes his role as father/doctor a little too seriously sometimes. If I am having a very, VERY slight case of asthma, he ardently brings home a large box filled with four or five different types of inhalers. Stacks of boxes of Symbicort, Flovent, Singulair, and Proventil piled high, with prescription pads with instructions scribbled on them stuck to each different type of inhaler for me.

He always takes it way too far. If I’m having a bout of the head cold, I get a little wheezy. I may need a couple puffs from an asthma inhaler each day for about a week until it clears up, and then I don’t need medical attention of any kind for another 12 months. That’s all. My father cannot grasp this concept. Instead he loads me up with mountains of pills, samples galore, and a half a dozen variations of inhalers. Each time this happens, I use one of them, and the rest get stored away in my bedroom somewhere where I never look at them again. Tiny foil packages and compact boxes containing asthma puffers fill the drawers in my bathroom and the shelves in my closet. Last week while packing up all my belongings for my big move, I threw away at least six inhalers and a good hearty stack of allergy medicines because I simply didn’t have places to put them. When I arrived in Council Bluffs yesterday as Trent and I passed through en route to the East Coast, my dad walked in, and quickly outstretched his hands with two more Symbicort inhalers and a Singulair puffer.

“Here are a couple inhalers to take with you to Connecticut,” he said with importance. “You know how you get wheezy sometimes.”

“Dad, I get wheezy maybe one time a year for like six days. I already have a huge stack of these.”

“Yeah, but you’re going to be going to a new climate now, too. You’ll be sorry if you don’t have them,” he insisted.

“That’s the point—-I already have like sixty of these. I literally don’t have a place to put them,” I retorted.

He seemed to have not heard me, and left them in my hands, exiting the kitchen. I set them on the kitchen table. My mom, in her compulsively tidying habits, bustled by, and noticed them. She scooped them up and held them out to me.

“Dad brought these home for you—-don’t forget them!”

“Mom, I literally do not have space for anymore inhalers. I just threw five or six of them away while I was packing because I had accumulated so many. Give them to the poor.”

I won that battle. Well, I’ll be leaving you with that, boys and girls. Until next time, cheerio.

“‘She calls me and says, ‘Sir, you only have twenty dollars in your account,’ and I’m like, ‘I know, it sucks.’ And she’s like, ‘Sir I don’t think you understand; you have insufficient funds.’ I’m like, ‘Oh, I agree completely! I think my funds are extremely insufficient! I mean, I don’t have only twenty bucks in my account just to fuck with you—-I’m not doing it to be a dick, I just don’t have very much money.’ They charged me fifteen dollars for insufficient funds. I guess it costs fifteen dollars to only have twenty dollars.”


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