I was sitting on the seventeenth floor of a skyscraper, peacefully reclined on a tauple leather chair when my new dental hygienist whirled into the room. Margene. Before Margene fired up fired up her tools, she had a few questions: Did I floss? And how often? Well, I don’t like to lie, but to say the truth . . . it’s embarrassing.

Darlene uncovered my dental history herself, as soon as she scraped along the borders of my teeth and gums. Gingivitis is a real medical condition and not a scare tactic invented by Crest, she told me. If I continued on my blithe way, I could expect a host of unpleasants. She pressed three boxes of floss into my hands, and asked me to promise. I promised.

Yet, somehow, putting on my coat and waving goodbye, I knew it was a hollow vow. At 11 p.m., the covers were so inviting. In the morning rush, I was barely able to clothe myself. Pressures were coming at me from every direction, and when I left the office, I knew flossing would plummet to the bottom of my list. The lady at the MAC counter told me I was courting disaster by not moisturizing. A family friend suggested that I start a retirement account. I had no savings!

And Margene, while she seemed like a good dental hygienist, did seem a little overzealous on the topic of stringing thread between one’s teeth. I was twenty-three. I was reckless and immortal. Maybe it’s just as simple as that I have always hated flossing, and I will do nothing that I hate unless forced to.

I kept on the path of passive rebellion. Six months later, I returned to the chair under her paste blue ceiling, easy listening music floating through the hallways to soothe the pain of the stainless steel instruments about to be unleashed. Then, this entire visit is just a blur. Margene started stabbing along my gums. A variety of ominous words echoed off the equipment: periodontal disease, root canal, and something called “deep cleanings.” She called in the dentist because of the gravity of the situation. The tiny chasms between my teeth and gums had widened, registering an appalling “five.”

One particular molar was about to break free. At age twenty-four, I found this hard to believe. How did they let it happen? How did I let it happen? Margene scheduled a “deep cleaning” for each quadrant of my mouth, but then told me the most important element of my rescue was the element I would control: the self-care. She offered another flossing demonstration; this time, we practiced together. I began a journey I would continue alone.

When I came home I told my roommates I would be in the bathroom for at least five extra minutes in the bathroom every morning, and there, in front of our sink, I had a series of new feelings and revelations. Like most neophytes, I bled. I felt pain. All that gunk had been sedimenting in there, and I had been living with it!

Soon, though, I started to feel the delicious sensations of space between my teeth. Even more important, a sheer sense of life control. Whereas before I could barely drag myself to the bathroom sink to brush, now, the act of flossing was symbolic. Self-love.

I began to achieve a real momentum. It’s like exercising, once you begin, your gums crave a cleansing, just as your muscles call out for a workout. Of course, a lot of anticipation led up to my next visit. Would I pass the test? Yes. My gums regenerated themselves, like starfish, firmly anchoring even the back teeth. Margene practically gave me a gold star. Walking out of the office, I felt simply wonderful. Very good about myself, and very hopeful about the future.

I wish I could end on this triumphant note. How is it possible, three years later, that I am back where I started? The sad truth is, now that Margene trusts me to take care of myself, I have fallen off the path. It’s not just flossing–it’s everything. Not returning videos, not paying my credit card bill even when I have the money. If this is a passive rebellion, who am I rebelling against? I have turned to self-help books. The author of The Language of Letting Go, Melody Beattie, instructs us to repeat this mantra: “We can make a commitment to take good care of ourselves throughout the day.” I mouth these words as I apply my deodorant in the morning. On an occasional bright morning, with courage, I pick up a box of floss.

Sasha Cagen originally published this piece in To-Do List in 2000. Amazingly enough, she still has all of her teeth.