There is something terribly odd about the fact that I repaired my toothbrush. True, yesterday I had to turn my book off during take-off and landing, and that is odd too. But repairing a toothbrush is just bizarre when you really chew on it.
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| What came first, the little bags or miniature toothbrush sets? |
It is true that for several years I walked out of the Dentist's office and felt like a fraud. How could it be so? No cavities? I'd think about my love for sour patch kids, licorice ropes, and automic fire balls and think, that can't be right. Was this a scam? Did I laugh so hard at the man in white's jokes that he just decided to let me get away without a single cavity (years later, my movie-theater choices would come to light)?
Either way, yes it is true I felt that I had beat the system when I walked out with nothing but a bag filled with mini-dental-hygienic goodies. Fair enough, but I wonder if this warrants my current frustration with the toothbrush industry. How can it be that I find myself repairing a toothbrush? Have you ever tried to replace a battery in a toothbrush? It is nearly impossible, and it's gross.
I have succeeded, but only after reaching into my toolbox for pliers. I looked at myself in the mirror (of course you fix your toothbrush in front of the mirror) while I first pried the cap loose, finagled the battery out and replaced it, jerry-rigged the connector to make the thing work again and finally as I brushed my teeth for the heck of it.
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