I’m lying in bed, pitch black, trying to sleep. It’s well after midnight. I hear frantic rooting around in the master bathroom cabinets. I do mental gymnastics: my children are grown and asleep, my cat is old and not capable of this …what the heck?? I get up to discover it’s my husband in his jammies on all fours, frenetically looking for something with the finesse of a raccoon foraging through a metal garbage can. “Hon?” I ask. “Where are my flossers?” he replies. “You don’t use flossers.” He thinks he has some. And he does. We have about 20 very gently used packages of pokey thready things. I’ve put them…