So I have this new toothbrush. After eight years of service, my old one had lost most of its bristles. I thought it was still okay because my tooth count had matched the bristle count, but Sherry splurged on a new one for me.
Then this mint green toothbrush called Gum Great starts giving me orders. It tells me how much time I should spend on each quadrant of my mouth. It makes funny sounds the moment I go out of its established order. When I think I’m finished, it gives me a grade on how I’ve scored overall. So far, my best score is “Okay.”
I hate my new toothbrush. It thinks it’s smarter than me.
Sherry is out running with the dogs. It’s my big chance to get rid of Gum Great for good. I wrap it in an old, dirty towel. I drop the towel in a black garbage bag and cover it with legitimate garbage from the kitchen. Wet, smelly stuff. It’s the perfect crime.
Yet, I’m fighting a losing battle. I think of how many other Gum Greats I have in my retired life, telling me what I should do. My car tells me when it thinks I’m screwing up. Drug commercials let me know I need to be more vigilant against diseases I’ve never heard of.
I remember the good old days when I had to figure some things out for myself.