Six months goes by so quickly. I leave the dentist’s office, appointment card in hand, with every intention of flossing daily. I mean, religiously, every darn day, until my next visit to the crucible of terror. And I keep my promise for about three days, part of a morning ritual until the pain of my most recent cleaning subsides and I no longer respond to my alarm clock.
I am not a morning person or a night person really. A similar lack of discipline is at play when I walk into a Mcdonald's to order a salad and walk out with a Big Mac and large fries, or when I truly believe I can stretch time after I lollygag, repeatedly touching the snooze button, during precious moments set aside for things like, well, flossing. In the rush to begin a day of retirement, the floss gets left in the drawer just behind the nail clippers and extra combs.
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