Floss-fest can't hide failure to tow the line

by Beth Teitell
Tuesday, April 16, 2002

You know she knows the truth, or will learn it in a moment, and yet you lie.

Even as you're uttering your little fib you know it's not going to help, but the old childhood impulse to save your skin - ``I have been practicing my scales, I swear'' - is never quite extinguished. It simply morphs into an adult version.

``Yes,'' you respond to her question, anxiety twisting your gut, ``I floss. Twice a day.''

When you think of organizations with crack surveillance networks, Santa and the IRS come to mind. But they're nothing. One guy is flying around miles overhead, and as invasive as audits get, you never hear of an agent actually reaching into someone's mouth.

``What you have to keep in mind,'' a lawyer friend counseled when I called her for pre-appointment strategizing last week, ``is that if they ask, they already know the answer, and they're just trying to see if they can get anything to hold against you later.

``Don't box yourself in,'' she advised. ``Either don't answer - take that moment to rinse or adjust the little bib - or be vague. Say something like ``I do floss, but not as often as I should.''

As usual, I was angry with myself for being in this situation. I'd known the visit was coming for six months. I'd scheduled it myself, at the end of the previous appointment. But like the term paper assigned the first day of the semester that's not due until the last day of class - a date that seems comfortably distant at the time - the visit snuck up on me.

Suddenly, April 11 at 1 p.m. was a mere two days away. ``Start flossing now and don't stop until you hit the chair,'' a friend advised.

I wasn't sure if flossing was the kind of thing that could be crammed, or if plaque ran according to its own schedule, in the same way a bad haircut does, or a two-year-old you're trying to get out of a toy store.

But since I had nothing to lose, except the feeling in my flossing fingers, I went on a flossing frenzy, going through dental floss and dental tape and Glide at the rate of eight yards per hour, stopping only to sleep and, of course, brush.

Even with my effort, in the elevator on the way up to the office I became panicky that I hadn't gotten rid of all of the evidence, and decided to go for plan B: Operation Cozy Up.

First I shmoozed the receptionist (in case she had an in with the hygienist) and then I went into full ingratiate mode with the Omniscient One herself. ``Have you found a dress yet?'' I asked, moving on to a very nice (I hoped) discussion of the attributes and drawbacks of various sleeve styles.

She was enthusiastic, but like a true professional, never lost sight of her mission. After some scraping and chitchat, the moment arrived:

``Are you flossing?'' she asked.

I rinsed. I adjusted the bib. I looked out at the jury. I recalled the words of wisdom given by a friend with her own dental issues, a woman who went to Catholic school as a girl:

``You can say you've flossed,'' she said, ``but they can see the lie in your soul. Just like nuns.''

I thought about that, and did the only thing I could. I took the Fifth, and vowed to start flossing that very night in preparation for my next cleaning.

Well, maybe I'd start over the weekend. October 11 was still six months away, after all. I had time.