When my car tires show signs of wear and tear, my mechanic — the great Nick Falvo of Schenectady — tells me to slap on a new set of General Tires Hercules specials.
When my teeth show signs of wear and tear, my dentist — the great Marshall Price of Guilderland — tells me to slap a hunk of form-fitting plastic over my lower teeth.
It’s a night guard. And for me, it’s a nightmare.
I’m one of those people who grinds teeth in the dead of night ... an extended brush with bruxism. I’ve heard the sound before, compliments of my brother Tim — grinding uppers and lowers together sounds like someone chewing walnuts or almonds with his mouth open. Or ice cubes going through an ice chopper. Or rocks smashed in a rock crusher.
Dr. Price said the nocturnal crunch wears down the teeth. I’m probably lousing up the tread, as Nick might say. There is no lifetime warranty on these guys, so once they’re shot, there are no dental versions of Tiger Paws or Firestones that can be quickly installed.
I keep remembering how one of Dr. Price’s excellent hygienists explained it: “You’re chewing up your teeth!” she said.
I’ve had the night guard for years. I’m not worried about swallowing the damn thing anymore, but I am concerned about losing it. The plastic guard — it looks like something a football player or boxer might wear — turns up under pillows, under the bed, stuck in the bed frame, lost behind one of the stereo speakers that double as matching bedside tables.
Yes, yes, I’m a bachelor; I’m sure a married man would never get away with such collegiate furnishings.
Anyway, there are some nights when I can’t find the mouthpiece. I figure to hell with it, and take my chances with inner demons who are pushing my jaw muscles at 3 a.m. Them I remember those words of warning — “You’re chewing up your teeth!” — and start looking a little harder for the missing shield.
Once I’m wearing the thing, I find it hard to fall asleep. I’ve tried slipping the plastic over my lower 20 an hour or so before nodding off, to really get used to the feeling. But by 3 a.m., the damn thing is on the floor or under the sheets someplace.
My teeth may be doomed. I have visions of waking up with a mouthful of broken Chicklets and pulverized enamel, teeth dropping out of my mouth like exploding, bloody popcorn kernels as I run toward the kitchen sink and a glass of water with a Listerine chaser.
Lately, I’m thinking the real solution might be ... marriage. I’ve found a way to cut down on snoring — sleeping on my side does the trick — so that would not wake any prospective partner. But if I began gnashing and grinding my teeth after midnight, like a hammer against a block of peanut brittle, I expect my wife would give me a nudge in the ribs ... or a punch in the head.
“You’re chewing up your teeth!” she might say.
“Thanks, Hon,” I would say, sleepily.
After enough times, I’m sure my subconscious would get the message. “No more grinding” would be posted on the bulletin board of my id.
So I will lose my bachelorhood if it means saving my teeth.
Maybe .... if I’m lucky ... my bride will let me keep those stereo speakers.
