Nobody likes the dentist!
Ok, that was harsh. Let me rephrase that: What I mean is that nobody really likes GOING to the dentist.
Going to the dentist is that necessary evil we must endure twice a year to ensure that our teeth don't turn brown and fall out. The smell when you walk through that dental office door is like getting smacked in the face with a dose of antiseptic and regret. It makes me queasy just thinking about it. As a kid, I remember this all too clearly. As I sat down on the 1980's paisley sofa, I tried to focus on the joy of being checked out of school and not the sound of drilling buzzing through the waiting room. I looked around at the other kids in the room looking squirmy as they waited to go back to "the chair." If any of us had to listen to that demonic drill for one more second someone would need to find a change of shorts. To block out the sound, I would go to my happy place: Birthdays. Swimming Pools. Grandma's House. For the parents in the room, this was that next task to check off the to-do list: Unclog toilet. Mow lawn. Dentist.
"Sarah? Come on back, sweetie,"
(As much as I hated being called "sweetie", it actually gave me the will to keep walking.)
I followed the assistant back for the routine x-rays and small talk. She would ask me how school is going, acted amazed at how tall I was getting while being prepped to see Dr. Brown. The man was borderline creepy. Like a nice clown with a secret. He would wear his mask so low that his cheesy mustache and his peanut butter breath would creep out just a smidgen. You'd think he of all people would brush after every meal.
His headlamp shone down on my face as he picked and poked at my teeth. He would pause and say things like, "Hmmmmmmm" and "Well, lookie what we have here." Then, he leans back from his wheelie stool, pulls his mask down and looks back at my Mom. Through his grinning stache, he says that condemning word: Braces.
I knew it!
A week before starting Jr. High, Dr. Brown gave my grill some street cred. I got braces. Ones with neon green rubber bands. This was socially acceptable because well, I was 12 years old. I soon found out that almost every smelly pre-teen was rocking that same silver and neon smile. When you imagine a 7th grader, you think of the kid who sits at the back of the classroom doodling, who pretends to like skateboarding and what else? Has braces. It was my badge of honor pinned not to my lapel but glued to my teeth shouting to the world, "I'M AWKWARD AND MY BODY IS CHANGING AND I'M NOT SURE I UNDERSTAND WHAT'S HAPPENING!!"
A third of those pimple-faced kids I saw in the hallway were worried about pit stains. A third were picking the food out of their hardware, and, yup, a third were most definitely doing both- and (heaven help us) and a whole lot of other upkeep. My 9th grade brother imparted his sage advice regarding braces maintenance: "Sade, just drink a quick swish of water from the drinking fountain and you're golden!" I could handle that. The truth was that nobody cared that I had braces and quite frankly, nobody noticed. I found solace in the company of my klutzy classmates. When in this company, no one knew their misery.
Ten months later, the B's came off and my tongue ran across my teeth 11,000 times a minute in complete bliss. It was the great return of Corn on the Cob eating and...*cough* flossing!
This was a phase of growing up to which I happily said "peace-out" to and was certain it would fade into a memory.
Fast-forward 22 years. The 12 year is now a full-functioning adult with a bank account and a scarf fetish. I had traveled the globe and had a lot to smile about.
But as time went on, the bottom shelf of the grill was getting a little crowded. I ignored it for a while because... I just did. Like most people, that bi-annual trip the dentist drifted further and further down my priority list. But, I could squeeze in a consult.
Enter on the scene Dr. Broadwater. An 80 year-old orthodontist who, like Dr. Brown, had an oddly shaped mask. Why, in the name of all that is holy, would you wear a mask that did not cover your nose? And, to send me into a tailspin of panic, he had a tiny little droplet of snot just hanging there on the brim of his nostril that with any sudden movement would send it flying. So help me, I will LOSE it if that lands into my mouth that was gaping wide open!
The conclusion was that getting treatment from Dr. Drippy Nose was a hard pass. He did say that I might need braces eventually. But, I shrugged that off like a bad first date.
I would stand barefoot on my bathroom rug and would obsess over every detail of my teeth in the mirror. I KNEW they were moving. I became flummoxed in discovering that the older we get the more noticeable every single change in our appearance becomes. While looking in the mirror, I would tilt my head just so to get a better angle at my- WAIT! Chin hairs? When did THAT happen?! It was now clear that shrugging off Teeth-Gate 2015 was no longer a smart move.
I decided to put on my adulting face one more time for an orthodontist consult. Little did I know that this one would hold my fate in his hand like a tiny bird. Here is the cold hard truth: he said my bite was so off and my teeth were moving so rapidly, my smile would end up looking pretty gnarly if I did nothing. I should probably mention that I'm a grinder.
I spent DAYS flip-flopping on the cost, my age, the pain and all of the horrible things that go along with getting braces. Endless thought bubbles hovered over my head saying things like:
"Getting braces as an adult is a thing, right?" (No.)
"My dental insurance doesn't cover this because I'm not an adolescent." (Eye roll.)
"How long did he say I had to have these on? 18 months? (Basically forever.)
"If I get clear ones they won't be THAT noticeable." (Wrong.)
I was at war with myself and I blamed my years of retainer negligence. I mean how many times did I fish that thing out of the trash? It truly is one of my life's biggest faux pas.
After the storm in my head had settled, and the pros unfortunately outweighed the cons, I did the unthinkable. I found myself squeaking out the words, "Doc, let's do it." On queue, his wannabe hipster assistant handed me a tall glass with "Your pride" written on it and said, drink up!
I was back in the that waiting room. Pandora played softly above my head as my stomach began feeling tight. I buried my face in a People magazine and tried not to make eye contact with anyone; let alone the sea of moody teenagers. They sat heads down with face-to-screen and had no clue what was in store for them. I did. And here I was. Again. I saw the green exit sign above the door in the same neon shade as my 7th grade rubber bands. I was psyching myself up to run when that voice from the past was back.
"Sarah? Come on back, sweetie!"
(Sweetie? Really?)
A few hours of extreme jagged discomfort later, the new hardware was installed. I was past the point of no return. Thus began the 18 month sentence of closed mouth smiles, cutting up food like a toddler and saying adios to dating (probably). It was my new look that would follow me everywhere. It was my cement and chain. Gone were the days of wearing red lipstick- for even the tiniest of smudges would turn into a 3D mistake. As I walked out the door with Cup of Noodles and wax in hand, the orthodontist made an attempt for me to look on the bright side. "Don't worry, I'm sure the guys on Tinder will still swipe right." I typically would say something snarky under my breath, but, I was way too loopy to care.
Later that night, I made myself a grilled cheese sandwich that took 45 minutes to eat. The pain in my mouth matched the pain of my damaged ego. Puree a grilled cheese sandwich? I refused to stoop so low.
While the pain chilled out after a week, eating was just obnoxious. Most humans find this to be a mindless task. But, as my fellow metal mouths know, we have to do this with extra thought and precision. If you think it isn't awkward to buy a $1.99 Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger, try biting into it. I have to either ask for a knife and fork and cut it into bite-sized pieces, or become a barbarian who just saw food for the first time five years and rip it apart with my hands. Classy. Suddenly food in my life needed to be fun sized.
EVERYTHING you eat gets stuck with braces. My mouth, after all was under construction and traffic had a dickens of a time getting down the interstate without hitting some barricades! I would carry around this tiny little brush to get the food out from my teeth after eating anything. Thanks, bro, but a quick swish from the drinking fountain does NOT do the trick.
No longer on dates did I slip to the ladies room to powder my nose. I was picking out half of my Cobb Salad that was lodged in my teeth! I would try to avoid anything green on the menu or anything with "curry" in the title. Fact: Curry stains braces yellow. Neon yellow. So much so that it is probable that even a homeless man will look away.
When I would get all dressed up for church or a date, I would do the TSA scan on myself. First, the shoes: Perfecto! The skinny jeans: Never looked better. The top: Slamming. The accessories: On fleek. The hair and makeup: Runway ready! One last thing- if Little Orphan Annie has taught me anything, it is that you are never fully dressed without a smile. Go on and flash that smile in the mirror, Girl..to see if it's burrito free. Just...about....there. Got it!
*Sigh*
The braces kind of ruined it for me. Even when I felt so pulled together, I'd smile in the mirror and my insides would die a little. They are just not attractive. My confidence took a back seat for a while; just knowing that my look got dinged because of my magnet mouth. I always had this oppressive thought looming over telling me that I had to explain why I had braces to other adults. I blame a Western society that TELLS me that you're supposed to be 13 and NOT 31 during this ordeal. So, I'm age dyslexic, okay?
On occasion, I would have men in my office say that they loved older women with braces. It took them back to their youth and was reminiscent of some bumpy braces lip-action they got with some ditz named Staci. The only appropriate response to that yarn is provided by Colonel Sherman T. Potter: "Bull Cookies!"
After taking several long looks in the mirror (and pausing quickly plucking out those chin hairs), I discovered something. I'm still me even with braces. I am only progressing towards a better version of myself. And if that means not being able to whistle for 18 months, then so be it. One day I will slide my tongue over my smooth pearly whites, and roll my eyes at them a little less. My friends young and old, we all have flaws. Beautiful, messy awkward flaws. The crazy hair in the morning. The disappearing thigh gap. The weird birth mark. Whatever it is, don't hide it- EmBRACE it. When you do, you are giving yourself and others around you plenty to smile about.
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