Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Braces.

My 8 year old has braces. It's called "pre-treatment", so she won't be stuck wearing braces through high school. Like me. We're trying to keep the trauma to a minimum.

Ah, the memories. I had braces for 6 years. That's right, SIX. I had them from 1981 to 1987. I had what I call, "meat-eater teeth". Jagged, pointy, chops that could maul a tiger if attacked.

Some teeth didn't even bother coming in. They were like, "Fuck it. I can't add to this mess." I'm certain I was born with ten extra teeth. What else could explain the mayhem in my mouth?

My daughter's orthodontist asked if I had braces. "Yes, I had them for six years." To which he replied, "Dear God, I've never heard of that. SIX? Are you sure?"

Yes, I'm sure. Nevermind the binders, sores, and chapped lips. It was the headgear that killed me. Why didn't they just put a fucking helmet on my head and call it a day?

I had a headgear that mimicked a hat of sorts. This contraption was strapped to the top of my head like it was keeping my jaw from falling off my face. Even my teachers were like, "What the hell is that?"

My mother said, "Actually, I can't let you wear this to school anymore. It's just...you can't." She knows social suicide when she sees it. Everywhere I went, people asked, "Does that hurt? Because it looks incredibly painful."

The pain was worth the reward. I now have straight, white chops. I like to smile and show them off because, damn it, I earned these straight racks of chicklets.

Ahhh, it feels good to walk the streets without scaring people.

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