Crooked Pathology
If I had any friends and you asked them, they would probably have little trouble coming up with a list of my weaker characteristics. Words like grumpy, germophobic, inadequately-cocked, discontent, syphilitic, and Irish-Protestant would surely litter the page. But I doubt that a single one of my glamorous and sophisticated imaginary friends would ever describe me as vain. Clothes, cars, jewelry, toupees or any other trappings of vanity simply have never held sway over me. It’s not that I’m above being vain. I just think being modest is far more attractive.
Central to my ongoing quest to appear humble has been a lifelong refusal to fix my crooked teeth. To be honest, my choppers are not all that bad. Strangers don’t frequently mistake me for a citizen of the British Empire, nor am I regularly commandeered by the National Park Service to help dam up rising rivers (that’s a beaver joke, folks!). Let’s just say that that the nocturnal dental pixie that occasioned upon me as a child was less concerned with the “tooth” part of his job than the “fairy” part. And for some strange reason, he always seemed to appear in the form of my Uncle Felix.
Despite having a few nasty nippers (and a terrible childhood secret), I’ve managed to live well into my adult life without feeling the need to “correct my defects.” Of course, in my early years this was less a conscious decision than a lack of an effective response to my dad’s standing prerequisite that I could “waste good money on (braces/a mini bike/a lock for my bedroom door) just as soon as you get a job.” Later on, I embraced my jagged fangs as they served as a handy excuse for why I had not yet been discovered by Hollywood.
Last week, at 43 ½ years old, I finally decided to get braces. While vanity certainly does have a way of wearing a person down over time, especially when you reach the age where your hips are as likely to shatter as your dreams, I have a good excuse: the gum line between my bad teeth was receding (and here I was worrying about my hairline. What else do I need to be concerned will recede?!!). And though I might feel I’m a little too old to get braces, I’m quite certain I feel too young to get dentures. So the decision was an easy one, other than the fucking price tag.
In any case, I’m now just twelve months and several thousand dollars away from a million dollar smile. If this self-improvement project goes well, who knows? There might be a pair of orthopedic shoes, an algebra tutor, and a case of Oxy-5 in my future. Maybe I’ll even get around to addressing those inappropriate erections that always seem to be interrupting my job interviews and Girl Scout cookie purchases.