As I stretched out and looked over my blue paper bib, between my parted boots and out through the picture window at the old folks home in the distance, she said, "You may have a cavity."
I spun my head around at the dental hygienist, who was looking at my x-rays that, earlier, I had tried to wriggle out of by saying that I had eaten after midnight. "That doesn't matter," she said. "I kind of ate a lot," I said. "Nope," she said.
Presently, regarding my possible cavity, I said, "Okay listen, that's impossible. I don't eat Warheads™ or Fun Dip™. Plus, I didn't know that 54 year-old girls could get cavities."
"When we age," she said, "hormones change, saliva dries up, gums recede."
"What are you? A hygiene expert?" I asked.
"Yes," she said.
"Well, I have scads of saliva!" I said, "which will make itself apparent when I spit into this giant-tiny sink of yours, on which I see a plastic cup that you have already filled with water, which I won't even need because I make so much saliva. So that's a waste."
"We'll see."
"I can make saliva on command," I continued. "And just so you know, the command is: Wed-ding-cake."
You're in good company, Con. I got very sulky when the dentist told me I not only needed a filling replaced (OK, so they do wear out) but that there was decay around it. What? I don't get cavities! I haven't had a cavity in decades! The dentist is the one doctor I love going to because he always says, "your teeth are great, so whatever you're doing, keep it up." I feel betrayed.
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