Electric toothbrush no spark for this reluctant user

If you were asked to name the worst invention as the result of Thomas Edison's discovery of electricity, what would you choose? Bingo, it's the electric toothbrush, a by-product of his creativity.

To my surprise, and maybe yours, this instrument of torture was first produced in the United States in1927 by the Electro Massage Tooth Brush Co. And I'm glad to report they are no longer in business. That sounds ugly, and I do hang my head in shame.

But that company's offshoots are alive and doing well. A modern version resides on my bathroom vanity top. It's bluetooth no less, with six different brushing choices. And I'm sorry to report that I am not enamored with any of the six.

The whole nasty situation arose at my next-to-last regularly scheduled teeth cleaning session. Both the hygienist and the dentist diplomatically, but firmly, recommended my cleaning methods needed modernizing.

I listened politely, but I'm in firm control of what I personally do with a toothbrush. Meaning, I went right on using the old-fashioned, non-buzzing kind.

Then came my birthday, and my beloved daughter drove 600 miles to visit, bringing with her my present — an expensive electric toothbrush. Afraid my appreciation didn't overwhelm her; I just couldn't muster it.

After her return home, a sense of guilt set in on me. So I began the recommended method of cleaning the pearly whites (well, not so

Senior Living white anymore as I'm a dedicated tea drinker).

The result was ghastly. Twice daily I felt like I was sitting in the dentist's chair having my teeth polished. To me, that part of the cleaning procedure is the epitome of misery. I can't stand all that whirring around my molars. What's more, I found control of the mess was beyond my capabilities.

Toothpaste escaped — flew on my face and sleeves, and it generally messed up the sink. Then, when I rinsed off and dried the apparatus after use, traces became embedded in my hand towel.

Later, I'd find streaks of a dried white substance (guess what) on my wrists and sometimes on my face, and once on the front of my favorite blue sweater. The “guaranteed to whiten” toothpaste does a much better job of bleaching sweaters than it does teeth.

The electric gizmo was carefully returned to its box and put way back in the vanity drawer.

A bit of guilt nagged at me when I occasionally got a glimpse of it. But it also made me smile to close the vanity drawer and inwardly grin, “Got ya!”

The next time my daughter came for a visit, she surmised I wasn't using the electric brush. I confessed and suggested she take it home with her. With a new brush head, it would be available for use by someone else.

Off to Atlanta it went. And my spirits went up — until my next cleaning date with the dental hygienist. “Way too much tartar,” was the verdict. I succumbed to pressure, bowed my head in shame and went looking for a replacement. After pricing the electric monstrosities at several stores, I humbly sought the return of the gift I'd so happily rejected.

Of course, I had to buy new heads (and getting the super duper plaque-removers isn't inexpensive). Daughter didn't want me to pay the postage for the brush's return, but I felt remorse over my actions and reimbursed her.

So, I now had a gift I didn't want — again — and it had cost me approximately $50, what with the new heads and postage.

Presently, my conscience nags me into using it once a day. During the other cleanings, I defy dental directions. Firmly grabbing the very non-bluetooth handle of my old brush, I go at it — the old-fashioned way.

I haven't confessed to daughter that the electric contraption is only used once daily. There are some secrets between one's brush and its user. Will the dentist surmise at my next visit? Will there be tartar buildup? The suspense isn't killing me. My defense is prepared.

Twice daily I felt like I was sitting in the dentist’s chair having my teeth polished. To me, that part of the cleaning procedure is the epitome of misery. I can’t stand all that whirring around my molars.

Karen K. Spaulding can be reached at kksbadger@cox.net.