I went to the dentist today. My tendencies toward the melodramatic can catch people who don’t know me off guard, and so perhaps I should not have answered the question on the intake form “How do you feel about your smile?” by writing “Ick. It makes me unlovable.” Regarding my sociology-infamous bottom front teeth, the dentist asked me if I had ever contemplated braces. I told him that my parents had not been eager to spend their money on that when I was growing up (and I didn’t especially push them), and then I went through college and graduate school without any money to spring for it myself, and then by the time I was in a position where I had money, I felt too old. “You’re under 60. Anything under 60 is not too old,” he said.
Still, getting braces would seem just to further my suspicion that I am in the throes of the lamest midlife crisis ever. Worse than buying a large TV and starting to have opinions about American Idol. Worse even than if I had followed through with the urgings of a certain unsavory friend and gotten a mobius strip tattoo. Maybe I should just shell out now and buy a hot new Camry.
BTW, my dentist’s name is Doctor Dong, but I will pass on making any of the several million jokes that practically blog themselves about that. He’s in practice by himself, and his office, in its entirety, is smaller than my living room.