About the sharing of a toothbrush

It’s bound to happen sometime, somewhere, if you’re living in close quarters with someone, I guess. I don’t know the whole story, but here’s basically what happened: It was an argument. Over a toothbrush. Why I got in on it, I’ll never know. She called me, though. At first, I couldn’t believe she was serious.  

“Would you let someone else use your toothbrush?” she asked. “I mean someone close to you.”

I laughed and told her that I hadn’t thought about it lately. But I was interested and asked her why she asked.

“Well, because I did it, and it caused a fight,” she said. “We’ve been married eight years, too. I just don’t understand it.”

Knowing I was going to hear about it anyway, I asked her to tell me about it.

“I couldn’t find my toothbrush this morning,” she said. “Or his was handy or something. I forget. It really doesn’t make any difference. What matters is that I used his toothbrush, and he didn’t like it. He was in the shower when I did it. I was in the bedroom getting dressed when he found out. ‘Did you use my toothbrush?’ he bellowed.

“I knew he was angry, so I pretended that I didn’t hear. But he stormed into the bedroom, glared at me, and said, ‘I said, “Did you use my toothbrush? The bristles are wet, and I haven’t used it since last night.’

“‘Yes, I used it,’” I told him.

“‘For crying out loud, honey,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter with you, anyway? A toothbrush is a private thing. I don’t want you or anybody else using mine. You just don’t do things like that. It’s a little like sharing—well, you know what I mean. Some private things you just don’t share with anyone.’

“I was honestly flabbergasted,” she continued, after making sure I understood the basis of the argument. “I thought he was insane. It’s inconceivable to me that anyone as intimate as we’ve been could object to sharing a toothbrush with each other.

“Guess you don’t know how somebody is until you live with them for a while. But it shouldn’t take eight years. That’s ridiculous. And I have used his toothbrush before, too. He just didn’t know about it. What do you think?”

That was hardly a fair question, I thought. Even a public-service journalist can only go so far. But I told her it sounded as though two people were headed in opposite directions. It happens, I told her. She agreed but said she couldn’t imagine life without him, that he was such a part of her life.

“I’m not the kind of person who lies to sleep diagonally,” she said. “I don’t know what it is lately. We used to get along so well. Now it’s amazing the kinds of petty arguments we have. I never imagined that a dirty ring in the bathtub would be the source of a major argument, either. It doesn’t matter—if he wants something, I don’t; if it bothers me, it doesn’t him.    

“But he’s getting so picky. It’s not just the toothbrush. I can’t cook to suit him, either. Oh, I can cook OK. He just doesn’t like the way I do it. He doesn’t want me to taste anything with the spoon I stir with. He has a fit when he sees me stir something, taste it and then put the spoon back on the top of the stove to use again.

“The thing of it is that if I do as he wants and use a clean spoon every time I taste something, I still have to have something to stir it with. He wants me to put the spoon on the holder when I’m not using it. That’s unsanitary. But that doesn’t matter anymore than it does when you taste with a spoon and use it again. When you put the spoon back in the pot, it sterilizes it anyway.”

She talked for a long time, and I listened. It seemed that she never had a dull moment in life. Finally, I asked her what had happened with the toothbrush argument.

“Nothing much, really,” she said. “I told him that if he thought I was so full of germs, he might not want to kiss me anymore. I expected to see him take the toothbrush to the kitchen and sterilize it before he uses it again. I’m sure he did run hot water on it.

“I asked people at work what they thought. They split 50-50. One older woman said, ‘I can tell you definitely that my husband and I wouldn’t think of using one another’s toothbrush. That is disgusting.’ So what do you think? What do you think your readers would think?”

Somehow, I knew I was going to have to answer. But I didn’t know what to say. First, I said I didn’t think it would bother me one way or the other, if someone else close to me did not want to use my toothbrush. And I said I couldn’t speak for my readers.

“You mean you don’t think it would be some kind of sin that your mate didn’t care as much for you if she wouldn’t let you use her toothbrush?” she asked.

Trying to make light of her question, I told her that I didn’t think it would mean that if the person had hoof and mouth disease or something a little more serious.

“Oh, you know I didn’t mean that,” she said. “What I’m saying is if you’re both in good health, and it’s somebody you kiss.”

But that bothered me a little, too. I asked her if she meant it was OK to use the toothbrush of anybody you kissed. That didn’t seem right to me for some reason.

“Why not?” she asked. “You should be particular about who you kiss. I wouldn’t just use anybody’s toothbrush. That’s gross.”