I’m pretty routine about brushing my teeth a few times a day, and toothbrushing is a little like sex…if you want to be doing it often, it helps a lot to have nice equipment.
Up until recently, my quest for good dental hygiene combined with my previously described love of expensive gadgetry compelled me to own the best: a Sonicare rechargeable electric toothbrush. It oscillates and vibrates bacteria into oblivion on a cushion of sound, all while never making even enough noise to awaken a napping cat. This is the Nimbus 2000 of toothbrushes, a magic wand under whose spell plaque and tooth decay disappear completely, banished like demons to some unthinkable parallel dimension that lies just outside the periphery of human senses…where defeated mouth germs are ported to wait out eternity, ever cursing the name of the Almighty One that vibrated them all to their fate.
However, even the powers of Excalibur itself are not limitless, and last week my Sonicare decided that I had just about gotten my hundred dollars’ worth of use out of it, and expired with nary a beep or a blinking light of warning. Crestfallen, I knew I would need to replace it quickly, but my faith was shaken; I was now jaded and determined not to spend so liberally on another toothbrush again. I waited for a sign.
Soon enough I got my answer. I went grocery shopping last week and a disembodied voice drifted to my ears as though from another plane, like a directive from on high: Shoppers, at the front of aisle four, we are offering an electric rechargeable toothbrush with four heads. The company ordered too many and we must unload them, this uncanny spirit confided in me. Hurry, they’re going fast. A sixty dollar value, only $2.99! Hurry…hurry…
I hurried. Somewhere deep down, I knew it was too good to be true, but surely this was pre-ordained and I wanted so badly to believe. Professional dental care! shouted the generic packaging. Whisper quiet! the box proclaimed. Sold, I said.
Once home I went to the sink and unwrapped my new device. As I applied a pea-sized helping of Colgate and flicked the on switch, I jumped about five feet in the air and glared accusingly out the window to identify who had just started mowing the lawn right outside my window. I discovered that no one had.
Emerging from the store again, my $2.99 back safely in hand, I walked next door to the pharmacy and examined their wares. A shiny new Sonicare Elite winked at me from the shelf like a precious gem, as if to say, “You’re just going to break down and get me in the end. You know it. I know it. End this charade now.” I resisted, my willpower and my wallet both crying out in rebellion against the price tag, and I settled on a model for about $35 sitting next to it.
This time, when I got it home and nudged the power switch, I was rewarded with a high-pitched whine that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention in recognition of some familiar, nameless fear. Grim realization crept across the face in the mirror as I remembered the origin of that sound. Note to electric toothbrush manufacturers: It’s probably a good idea, when designing your product, to avoid under any circumstances shipping a toothbrush that, when activated, mimics with eerie realism the sound of a dentist’s drill.
So of course, in the aftermath of all this, every time I go into the bathroom I am greeted with an almost human air of smug self-satisfaction by my shiny new Sonicare Elite. I heard the call and I answered, my feet tired, my spirit drained, my wallet lighter…but my teeth undoubtedly much happier. Excalibur has risen again.
Now, about that electric shaver I just broke…
