Dental floss is a short piece of very thin cord. Originally it was made of silk. Today it’s comprised of nylon or Teflon, either mono- or multifilament. It’s frequently sold waxed or unwaxed, in small plastic cases, loosely wound around a spool. The whole thing looks like a miniature replica of a ship’s safety rope, enclosed in a box behind glass, break in case of emergency. I crack into my floss cases at least once during their lifespans. The design really could be improved. The cord exits the casing through a little hole and runs half an inch to a bite of metal tooth, but sometimes the cord snaps, retreats, and the entire capsule needs to be fumbled open, floss rethreaded, the tooth ungunked of fuzzy strands before everything is right again.
Dental floss has a single purpose, to remove plaque. One wraps the ends of a strand around two fingers, often one’s first fingers, pulls the string taut, then slides it down between two teeth and back up, down and up, back and forth, before moving to the gap next door. I floss in the morning because I find putting it off until bedtime to be counterproductive; when I’m tired, the last thing I want is an extra task before going to sleep. But in the morning it’s almost pleasantly aggravating, at least for me, as my mouth pools with saliva, maybe my gums bleed a little. I relish being finished with it for the day, as though flossing is an unpleasantness I’ve calculatingly scheduled to get my morning started right – a tiny hurdle met and overcome. There’s also a learned pleasure from observing the act abstractly: the notion of better health through abrasion, descaling oneself with coarse rope. Imagine if that’s how we cleaned our bodies, up and down with twine, a full-body exfoliation. I think of flossing as a lonely exercise in long-term planning. It’s really only worth doing fastidiously. If one flosses after skipping the routine for a few days, there’s a smell that’s not very agreeable.
This week I went to the dentist’s office for a cleaning. The hygienist finished her work by flossing my teeth for me. What a weird, intimate moment. I tried to be a good patient, adjusting my jaw, shifting my lips to anticipate her next move – I wanted to help, make unbuckling the floss from each groove a little easier. But there’s always a part of me that knows I know the process better. Wants to tell her to drop the floss and quit already, I’ll do it myself.
In tomorrow’s Sunday supplement for subscribers: Several new terrific things to stream; a classic Italian book that’s not well known in the States; the best affordable tech-y thing I’ve purchased in the last couple months.
If you’re not on the supporter train yet, hit the blue button below. There’s a free trial so you can dig into the archives to see if it’s for you.
Meditations in an Emergency is a micro-essay published Saturdays by novelist Rosecrans Baldwin about things he finds beautiful, with a longer essay once a month for subscribers, dispatched from the woods.
Also for subscribers: a Sunday supplement with three-plus ideas for things to love, no paid placements lol 💀
Rosecrans is the bestselling author of Everything Now: Lessons From the City-State of Los Angeles, available from Bookshop, Amazon, or (preferably) your local store. Other books include The Last Kid Left and Paris, I Love You but You’re Bringing Me Down. His debut novel, You Lost Me There, was a New York Times Book Review Editors’ Choice.
Any other books mentioned in this newsletter are featured on a Bookshop list.