Good thing I am not a dentist

Thanks for reading this. Really, thanks. The last thing I want to do is talk to myself. Though, admittedly, that’s not so bad, and not so unusual. I do it everyday in my car. (And you do too. Right? You do, don’t you?) Actually, what I do is more of a sorry attempt at singing and harmonizing with the radio. If you’ve ever passed me on the road, I was probably doing some mighty fine lip-synching. Forget lip-synching. You’re here reading my blog to get some real nuggets of info-tainment.

I was going to get on here and tell you about my new job, and how I’m glad I finally found a position where my boss is not some 17-year-old girl my sister knows from elementary school, the one who started smoking in the third grade. I was going to tell you how it’s nice to have a cubicle to adorn with post-it notes and inspirational posters and miniature basketball hoops (yes, hoops, multiple ones, as in full-court office balling). And how it’s cool to have a watercooler and how they tell me once a day to “stop leaning on that and get back to work.” But I don’t like talking about my job.

Know this: I got a job, and I felt as unqualified as could be for the real world and was pretty sure I was going to spend my life delivering pizzas and answering to high-schoolers. All of my fears were assuaged as I fell through the cracks and weaseled my way into gainful employment. But I am not my job, and I don’t want to spend all day talking about it. I’d rather talk about fantasy football and how picking up Dwayne Bowe officially makes me a genius. But, you have no interest in that either.

Instead, I want to talk to you about custom orthodontics.

Here’s the thing: I always, always liked the orthodontist better. He had more current issues of Highlights and a rack full of game boys. And when things went wrong with the orthodontist, I was absolved of any responsibility. Teeth not growing in right? Blame genetics, or maybe evolution. But don’t blame me because my teeth can’t figure out which way is up.

Conversely, at the dentist, I was to blame for the chaos in my mouth. I always felt awkward admitting that the blood on their floss had been shed by my dental indifference. It was always obvious that I didn’t floss, and they still asked me if I had as though I was the only rotten kid who couldn’t seem to find the floss. Looking back, I should have told her, “Of course I didn’t. Why do you think I’m bleeding all over your bib, like this?” but the hygienist’s interrogation chair is no position for sarcasm. After all, this was after they’d spent ten minutes mining my gums with the little pokey-pickaxe thing. No sir, I am not a dentist fan.

Of course, the dentist’s torture was fleeting. Orthodontic pain lasted weeks…but the smile lasts forever.

Or at least until I start chewing tobacco.

One Love.