In which the protagonist enumerates the stages of acceptance of Gingermint Baking Soda toothpaste from Tom’s of Maine.

Day 1.

MAN picks up toothpaste as if it were a particularly exotic animal. He peers at it from all sides, trying to determine if it is friend or foe. He asks THE SPOUSE about its origins.

“Honey, where did this little sample-sized tube of toothpaste come from?”

To which THE SPOUSE replies, “Oh, that’s something I picked up to put in our travel bags. I’m not too sure about the flavor, though. Gingermint. Sounds vaguely interesting.”

MAN is intrigued. “Ginger? In toothpaste? I must try this now.”

MAN gets out the toothbrush, onto which he applies a pea-sized amount of the paste in question, and proceeds to brush his teeth. He grimaces, slightly.

“This is positively the weirdest tasting toothpaste I’ve ever used.”

Day 2.

MAN opens medicine cabinet. He ponders the available choices. Colgate? Or Gingermint? He settles on the latter. After finishing, he is still not sure if he likes it or not.

Day 3.

MAN uses gingermint toothpaste. He no longer grimaces when using it. “Not bad, not bad at all.”

Day 4.

MAN doesn’t hesitate to grab the Gingermint instead of the more pedestrian Colgate. The flavor is really starting to grow on him.

Day 5.

“Hello, Gingermint. It’s time we got better acquainted.” Brushes teeth. “Oh yeah.”

Day 6.

MAN ponders why ginger flavor isn’t found in more consumer products, like say, postage stamps or envelopes. Or—for the ladies—ginger lip gloss. He concludes that the problem is that people have unenlightened tastebuds. Not him, no sirree. The Doors of Perception have been Thrown Open. Something like that.

Day 14.

MAN goes to brush teeth, only to realizes the trial size of Gingermint has been used up completely. Becomes despondent and uses the Colgate Ultra-Whitening crap. He grimaces; the pepper- or spearmint flavor is too sharp, too pungent.

“This is positively the weirdest tasting toothpaste I’ve ever used.”