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I have brief and uncertain memories of being about 7 years old, and running around a playground. I went to a small, private Christian school where they had converted a barn-like structure into a gymnasium. The playground was off to the side of this barn, separated by a parking lot converted to a basketball court. There were swings and monkey bars, and they all seemed so enormous at the time.

I remember running up the silver, shiny side of the slide as I was being chased by those wretched annoying girls (prepubescent years as a boy dictate that girls were annoying). As they’d catch up to me midway up the slide, I distinctly remember two small hands firmly planted on my buttocks, violently pushing me forward, causing me to slip and lose my grip, consequently slamming my face down on the metal surface and hearing the chink of my front tooth bounce off the slide and onto the grass. This was before I had braces.

I blacked out, not before seeing some stars and awoke lying on the grass with my hands in a fist. Opening my hand, I saw the piece that should’ve been attached to my front tooth. I considered using some kind of cementing glue to put it back on, but was concerned my tongue would remain permanently stuck to the roof of my mouth giving me a lisp that would undoubtedly endanger my future as a heterosexual male.

That chipped tooth has since then prominently stood out in front as the vanguard of enamel, reminding me of that day and of my childhood. Some twenty years later, that tooth has begun to show early signs of darkening and decay. It turns out, my tooth has been slowly dying, all these years. Well, just the nerve endings I suppose. All this time, I thought I just had coffee stained teeth.

Don’t be mistaken, the rest of my teeth are pretty yellow too. Its just this one is much more apparent in its discoloration. My trip to the dentist today uncovered this truth. She told me that I may need a root canal, or in the worse case scenario, a fake tooth to replace it. Worse case is a fake tooth? I would’ve assumed a root canal was the worst case scenario.

I can’t imagine a fake tooth being that bad, particularly if it was made of gold. Or even perhaps with a tattoo of a lightning bolt emblazed upon the front of the tooth. Maybe an implanted microchip and some WiFi receptors so that I’d be a walking hotspot.

Going to the dentist is becoming more and more like going to trial. Have you been flossing? Am I under oath? If so, the answer is still yes. I can’t floss, I have all kinds of wires behind my teeth. It’s like a circuit board back there. As a result, I have about six inches of tartar build up from two years of avoiding the dentist, and lately its been killing me. I can’t stand it. I’ve tried unsuccessfully to clean my own teeth just to avoid this guilt-ridden visit. I’ve tried a Swiss Army knife, a hammer and chisel, even an ice pick, all to no avail!

Luckily, my hygienist was a really cute blonde girl, probably fresh out of dental school. Tall, slender, and dark eyes; flawless olive skin and a gentle disposition. Our first encounter was spoiled, as for some odd reason, I couldn’t control my saliva while she was prodding around in my mouth. Is it inappropriate to start salivating uncontrollably when a cute girl pries open your jaws like its a bear trap?

I nearly confessed to her, about my attempts at cleaning my own teeth at home, and the makeshift dental equipment I’d fashioned out of elastic bands and paper clips. Apparently, we’re not at the stage in our relationship yet. This particular appointment today was just an assessment, and no scaling was to be done. No scaling until the next appointment which is in… four weeks! Four weeks! How am I going to last that long? I am running out of paper clips!

Why hasn’t any dentist invented a home scaling kit yet? I wanted to ask her to come over tomorrow, for perhaps a romantic night of candlelight dinner, movie and a full scaling. Or screw it, just slip me the tools, and I’ll do it myself. Some people wash their hair on Friday nights, I do my own scaling. There is nothing quite like a glass of red wine, a game of Scrabble and a good old fashioned tartar scraping to finish out a hard week at work.