The Toothbrush
How a Trip to the Dentist Made Me Question My Relationship with Technology
It was a Tuesday morning, and I was lying supine on a soft chair staring up at a ghost.
“How ya doing?” my dentist asked, bursting into the examination room, simultaneously offering me a pandemic-style elbow bump, and nodding to the hygienist, who had just detailed my teeth, as well as the rules of the office Halloween decorating contest.
“Grhaa,” was what came out of my cotton-stuffed mouth.
“Let’s take a look.”
My dentist’s gloved hands dove into my mouth, prodding and scraping a metal instrument over my teeth and gums. I scanned the room draped in black fabric, cobwebs, and skulls as he began a scary tale.
“You’re in jeopardy of developing PGD, periodontal gum disease,” he said.
My eyes met his.
“Soft plaque builds up at the gum line and literally pushes them away from your teeth. Sometimes as much as point two centimeters a year.”
He spoke rapidly, suggesting vague excitement.
I had noticed some gum recession, and if I was honest, I was guilty of not always brushing after every meal.
He scraped some more, and then delivered the knockout punch.
“Hence the expression, long in the tooth.”
I left the office with a $200 toothbrush, prettily packaged in a navy tote suitable to take to a fine restaurant.
The next day, a nor’easter slammed New England, where I live. Rain pelted windows and doors; wind sent my autumn wreath tumbling down the driveway.
It was a bad day outside, but inside, it was a good day to check off some chores.
I decided to set up my new toothbrush.
When my nail couldn’t penetrate the well-sealed box, I stepped up to cuticle scissors and then used a paring knife to stab open the paper coffer. Finally, my newest valuable appeared: a sleek, white wand, circular brush attachments, and a small charging stand.
But I deflated when I read the first direction: Download the Oral B app, and connect to Bluetooth.
Had I really purchased a toothbrush that required a Smartphone to operate?
I had.
I persisted.
I took out my phone, tapped on the App Store icon, typed in the model number, and waited for the blue indicator button to fill. I opened the Oral-B Connect app and read the first question:
“Do you have the right Oral-B brush and app?”
I didn’t.
Again, I scrolled through dental apps: Brush DJ, Dentist Bling, Fake Braces Face Photo Editor. Finally, I found the app that coincided with my brush. I launched the app; accepted the Terms and Conditions, and created a personal password — Brush2021!
Progress.
Next, I selected a language for my smart stick’s interactive display, but somehow, I set it to Korean. I re-read the directions and toggled through the mode button until I landed on my native tongue.
Now it was time to pair my toothbrush with Bluetooth. I held down the on/off button at the top of the shaft. A series of purple circles emanated from my phone, but nothing happened. I did it again. Each time my phone screen said, “Try again.”
I dropped to the bathroom floor, my new gadget charging on the sink. It towered above me, reigning superior on its charging throne; me, a lowly subject bowing below, iPhone in one hand, the open owner’s manual in the other.
All I wanted to do was brush my teeth; all I had was a possibly faulty, very expensive totem of consumer aspiration. I’d been here before, and now questioned my relationship with technology altogether. Should I separate for my own sanity?
Don’t get me wrong, I understand technology is a broad topic. I’m a fan of magnetic resonance imaging, manned spacecraft, Zoom. I love that with a few clicks, I signed up for a vaccine that can save my life. It’s just that I bought into the premise that technology, the internet, and all they bring to the table, are supposed to make life easier, better, connect us all. The reality is that, too often, the cumulative effect of living in the digital world, makes life feel harder; hollow, lonely.
That’s how I felt on the bathroom floor, watching the rain rivulets run down the window. I felt overwhelmed by the daily hurdles of creating profiles, codes, and passwords before I even got to pay the electric bill. I was tired of tapping Forgot Login or Forgot Password when I bought dog food or socks. I felt dragged down by accepting cookies and updating apps, whose shelf-lives were way too short; always conking out just when you need them most, like when a flight is boarding.
I longed for a 6-pack of regular, soft-headed toothbrushes from my local pharmacy for $13.99. Brushing tools that are ready to go when I open the package; purchased from a person with a name tag, who might say, “Have a nice day.”
Yes, I want the 10% off my first purchase in exchange for my email address, but I always regret that bargain. I’ve come to loathe the barrage of emails whose subject bars read, To Our Boot Loving Family, or, Meet Your New Luxe Knits. I’m not family, and I don’t need more luxe knits, thank you very much. If I do, I’ll contact you. And don’t even try using the line, Tis the Season, because I’m hip to the fact that it’s always the season for hawking goods.
If I’m really honest, my online life takes up way too much storage space in my brain. I don’t like that twitchy feeling I get when I’m driving and think about checking my phone. I don’t like the low-level shame that pours over me when Apple rolls out a new product, and I view my well-functioning iPhone and Apple Watch, as yesterday’s story. I don’t like the paranoia when I speak the word suitcase, and a paid advertisement from a luggage company tops my Instagram newsfeed.
The rain is lashing now. I vow to delete; unsubscribe. Check out as a guest.
Then the neck of my toothbrush sparkles green, like an emerald in a royal coronation collar.
I take hold of my brush, dab on some paste, and press on. My precious pillar buzzes to life. I hold the spinning head at the intersection of gum and tooth, moving it around my mouth. The stimulation of my uppers and lowers feels incredible. It tingles and titillates in ways I never knew were possible.
But when I return it to the charger, a frowning face appears on the display. One minute, thirteen seconds, it says. I understand what my toothbrush is telling me. We’re communicating. I grab my brush again and continue cleaning. When I finish, a broad smile appears on the display.
That smile actually makes me feel good. Good, because I mastered a tiny slice of technology; good because in the shadows of my technological despair, I realized I need to take control of my online life even more than I need to take command of my brushing life. I evaluated my relationship with the virtual world, and concluded that my fealty isn’t to technology, but to the people it connects me to; the broader experiences it opens up to me.
I still need to learn how to switch from whitening mode to intense clean. I still need to weed through the tangle of my online life and create more order. But I’ll save that for another rainy day. The sun is breaking through the low clouds, and it’s time to walk in the warmth of its rays.
