Maybe it was the die-cast quality that made it capable of chipping teeth. I wonder if he ever thinks about that. Probably not, I can’t think of his name. He also never came to the dentist with me, or lived the past quarter century with a weirdly smooth central incisor. I learned that’s the specific name of this tooth today when I had to explain it to my dentist’s clerk.
I’m not sure that I’ll get it fixed. It’s a bit rough, but it doesn’t hurt and I don’t think it’s caused any structural damage to the tooth itself. I’m fairly certain insurance would cover it, but the idea of taking a trip to Burlington just to get my tooth sanded down feels ridiculous.
There’s a joke amongst country doctors, from what I understand, that if a farmer comes willingly in to be checked up on, he’s likely in very dire need. I’m no farmer, the frugality of those true country folk is something I will hopefully never experience, but I do find myself leaning that way more and more.
It’s possible that I’m being a bit dire in my financial concern, I don’t know what it’s like to have a child, after all, but I do think it’s better to be safe than to be sorry. Either way, the chorus of “we can’t afford that.” has been singing through our house of late, and it’s likely not the worst thing in the world.
The fact that I can’t tell if my choice not to get my tooth sanded down is because I honestly don’t believe it to be necessary, or because the expense is daunting, is a bit disconcerting, I won’t lie. It’s the sort of brick I imagine early on in the path towards a farmer not going to the hospital even when he’s got his leg turning green.