On Teeth and Jodi Picoult.

Today is our one-year anniversary. We’re going to celebrate by going out, sitting in a special chair, having some brackets poked at and ooh, oh, I don’t know, maybe if I’m extra lucky I’ll get a packet of rubber bands. Or maybe floss! Oh, yes. Floss. Flossy, floss floss mcfloss. What sort of anniversary is this, you ask?

The anniversary of my braces, of course! Those metal delights, sent from heaven above and glued on to my earthly teeth! The contraption of death that prevents eating foods of a most delicious nature and also causes painful rubbing inside one’s cheeks! O, angels of Orajel, let me sacrifice to you another molar or three in the hopes that you will — yeah, whatever. Fuck it. I am looking forward to the day, though, but that’s only because it’s one step closer to freedom. By ‘freedom’ I mean ‘probably another year, maybe more if they hate me’, but go with me on this one. You see, none of this would be so bad, perhaps, if I was of the usual age when people, generally of the teenager variety, tend to get braces. And yes, yes, we all know that there are adults out there, poor creatures, who prefer their suffering in the form of Invisalign (they are not invisible; you are fooling no one). But when you’re 22, you’re too old and too young at the same time. It’s a whole new level of the awkward stage.

When I go to the dentist, there isn’t an average age of people in the waiting room. I’ve seen children as young as five; adults as old as “Oh, wow, they still have teeth that need to be cleaned?” But when I go to the orthodontist, I’m the oldest there. Oldest patient, anyway. There’s plenty of people older than me, but they all drive minivans and use checkbooks. I still live at home and refuse to floss. So, there’s that.

It’s funny, though, because I don’t think half the patients and the staff really know how old I am. Most people in medical professions seem to like to ask what grade you’re going in to, how was school, what’s your favorite class, and so on. Please note that these questions, dear doctors and dentists especially, would be a hell of a lot easier to answer if you waited until your fingers were out of my mouth. But I digress. When they ask me, though, it goes a little more like this:

“So, Andrea, what grade are you in now? In college yet?”

I shake my head violently no.

“Hmm?”

Like you can’t SEE ME shaking my head.

“What?”

“Ah ott ihh skooo.”

“You’re not in school? You didn’t go to college?” The eyes narrow, the eyebrows fix in a severe reprimand.

“Ah ehh-eee ooo.”

“Here, why don’t you rinse with this.” I gurgle, splutter, spit politely into the miniature sink.

“I’m twenty-two.”

“REALLY?”

“I graduated college.”

“You don’t say!”

Yeah, I do say, and shut up, these weren’t a graduation present. Look, in the long run, it could be a lot worse. I could have no teeth (which, some days, would actually be a lot better), I could have gonorrhea, I could be dead. But instead, I have braces, I am twenty-two, and I find it to be fairly embarrassing. I’ve had customers at work mistake me for someone much younger, as in somebody not even old enough to work there (???!!!), and even employees have asked just how old I am. Because I look twelve, I guess, I don’t know. I have clear braces because they wouldn’t let me get Invisalign; I can’t help this shit. I’m here, they’re clear, deal with it.

Actually, life with braces wasn’t so terrible once I got used to it. I slowly got back into the habits of eating solid food, I found I was able to eat hamburgers again without severe jaw pain (which is what started this whole metal mess to begin with), I brushed my teeth and kept my mouth shut as often as possible. Which wasn’t often, because I tend to go on for too long HOWEVER my positive bracely feelings changed one fateful night at work.

I work in a bookstore, a “chain”, if you will, and generally the customers are nice people. There are always idiots, though, crazies, weirdos, perverts, and the like, but any store has those kinds too. Regardless, one slow night I was at the register when a lady approached.

“There’s nobody at the Information Desk,” she said. I glanced over her wild, frizzy hair and saw that she was indeed correct. Generally speaking, if you are stationed at the register, you do not readily volunteer to help a customer in need find a book — because that usually requires leaving said register. However, it was slow, and there was nothing else to do. So I said, “Yes?”

“Well, I was looking for, uh, this book — HEY, ARE THOSE BRACES?”

I froze.

Now, firstly, who says that? What kind of a person asks another person for help and then starts commenting on their toothly appliances? I’m no stranger to going off on a tangent, but this was a bit much.

“Yes, yes they are,” I said, slowly backing away from the counter. She smiled excitedly, baring her yellowed, crooked teeth, and adjusted the perch of her unusually large frames. I add here, for your imagination pleasure, the fact that she possibly was sporting a fanny pack. I didn’t get close enough to confirm.

“Oh, they’re beautiful,” she gushed. “They’re like.. like jewels, shining on your teeth! Little, shining jewels!”

Because fluorescent lights are terribly flattering, especially when reflecting off of one’s teeth. Hm.

“Well, um, thanks,” I said. “So what book were you looking for?”

“You know, you look just like that boy on TV! You know the one, from that show?”

I groaned inwardly. At the time of this incident, season four of Project Runway was currently on the air, and three of my co-workers had mentioned, in passing, how I bore a slight resemblance to Christian Siriano. I am sure he is a lovely person, that sweet little Princess Puffysleeves, but we share nothing except naturally dark hair and fancy glasses.

Exhibit A, as fierce as ever.

So while I knew exactly who this woman was referring to, she was wrong. Plus, he’s a guy. I’m a girl. This was all a bit insulting.

“You mean Christian from Project Runway,” I gently reminded her.

“YES, YES! That boy! Of course!” she squealed. “And your braces, they’re so great! I used to have braces, and then they gave me a retainer, but I don’t wear it anymore, I wish I was wearing it for you now so I could show you.. it’s because this tooth is crooked, see? This one here? Yeah, they were trying to fix it, but then I had to have these other ones pulled, and starting having all these problems..”

Please further note that this woman was in her 40s and growing more excited about our collective teeth by the minute. Teeth are fabulous in their own right, sure, but not in public, and not when you asked me for help to begin with. The time for teething was not then, and with this woman, not ever.

But then I started to feel bad. I’ve had my share of dental nightmares too, lately — as I mentioned earlier, the whole “severe jaw pain” is actually something called TMJ and not very pleasant at all. I had been on a steady diet of liquid children’s Motrin and avoiding most chewy foods, actually, until I finally went to the orthodontist. I, too, had had teeth pulled only a few months prior and the gaps still hadn’t closed up. (And as I write this today, nearly a year after the surgery, the gaps are much more noticeable than they should be at this stage. Here I go, digressing again.)

I heard myself saying, “Yeah, I’ll probably have to wear a retainer too, when this is all over, but for now I’m wearing rubber bands at night, sometimes during the day, and my jaw pain is nearly gone but occasionally I still get headaches..”

We never did find that book she wanted, as I had to cut the woman short (she kept referring to me as “that boy” and enough is enough) and call someone over to the desk to help her, but I learned something that night. Never kick a gift horse in the mouth, because they’ll probably need braces afterward. And that shit’s expensive.

But that brings me to another fond memory, also involving my job and stupid questions I am asked by doctors and the people who surround them. This story, however, brings us to an office far, far away, but just down the road, really, from my orthodontist. I was at the dentist for my every-four-months cleaning. Yes, every four, not the every six like the rest of you normal people. They love me so much that they want to see me three times a year! Isn’t that wonderful? My filthy teeth give them such joy, such pleasure, that when they come charging at me with drills and scrapey things and silver glinting, pointy objects, I just can’t say no. I really can’t, actually; they insist on seeing me more often than usual because they don’t trust my brushing abilities. Sometimes, I just want to ask what they would do if all of their patients brushed their teeth properly — would they be out of a job? But then they’d probably start finding nearly-invisible cavities, any excuse at all to cause me more pain than usual.

And for the record, my teeth are not that filthy. They are not. With braces, you see, food does get stuck. And I can brush and brush and brush as often as I want, I can floss, I can poke around with picks and all sorts of miniature devices, but I will never get my teeth as professionally clean as they do at a dentist’s office. Let’s face it. That’s what the dentist is for. So they shouldn’t get all accusing and nasty when I go for a visit; instead of “Andrea, you really need to brush nearer to the gum line, okay? Do you want gingivitis? Do you?”, I should be hearing rounds of applause, cheers, “Thanks Andrea! You’re our best patient! Why, you’re keeping us in business!” Yeah, you’re welcome. Where’s my free toothbrush?

So I was at the dentist, on a fine and lovely spring day, and my mouth was undergoing a fat-fingered invasion. I always have the same hygienist, a woman with dark hair and a nice enough face but shit, she has some fat fingers. Nobody likes a toothly professional with fat fingers. Everything feels more crowded than usual, you gag, she gets annoyed — both parties go home miserable. I honestly don’t remember her name; my sisters and I just refer to her as Fat Fingers. It’s terrible of us, I know, but it isn’t like I mistake her for a member of the opposite sex, unlike some customers I know..

Anyway, Fat Fingers was giving me the usual Spanish Inquisition. Except she at least remembers that I’ve been out of school for a little while now, and also that I work in a bookstore.

“So, how’s work?” she said, prodding around a molar.

“It’s — ahhhh — okay,” I winced.

“Which one do you work at again?”

Well, I never said she was perfect.

“The one on rooo-owwwww! Roo.. route __,” I said.

“Oh, that one. Right. Hey, do you read Jodi Picoult?”

It was all I could do to stop myself from laughing hysterically and gagging on the sharp metal object in my mouth. I have nothing personally against Jodi Picoult, or her fans that I’ve heard refer to themselves as “Picos”, or the official e-newsletter called “Pi-Cult”.. no, I’m sure she’s a lovely woman; it’s just her books that suck. They’re all relatively the same to me, though I have never read a single one, and I never intend to. They just aren’t for me. I prefer books with substance. And hey, maybe her books have substance — I’m just never going to find out. Cheesy, sentimental, keep-the-Kleenex-nearby kinda stuff. In other words, no thanks, keep it to yourself, call me when you’ve read something that’s not going to show up as a Lifetime movie one day.

Imagine my simultaneous delight and horror, then, to discover that Fat Fingers is a fan. A “Pico”, or whatever, if you will.

“..I know that she’s very popular,” I countered, which is what I often say when a customer asks about a book that I either don’t like and know nothing about, except that I don’t like it.

“Oh, I’ve read almost all of her books. They’re fantastic,” she went on. Fat Fingers, who usually never has a nice thing to say (because she’s usually too busy complaining about my teeth, the teeth that are KEEPING HER EMPLOYED, DAMMIT), sounded surprisingly positive, upbeat, cheerful, even. Maybe Jodi Picoult was worth a try, after all.

“Yeah, they’re, um, big sellers,” I said. “One of them’s going to be a movie soon, with Cameron Diaz.”

“Well, you should really read them sometime,” she said. “Also, you need to floss more. Your gums are just so inflamed.” She sighed heavily, all happy feelings completely disappeared.

I closed my eyes, and as she kept scraping, prodding, and poking, I repeated a mantra in my head for the rest of the visit. Nothing she can do will hurt me, because she has terrible taste in books. Nothing she can do will hurt me, because she has terrible taste in books. Nothing she can do will hurt me, because she has terrible taste in books..

So, braces, here’s to you! Here’s to us! Here’s to another year, filled with mashed potatoes, Carnation Instant Breakfast, and pudding by the truckload! Thanks for all the great memories! I love you, babe. Let’s never break up. Until my teeth are straight, that is, and then I’m dropping you like it’s hot. And in the immortal words of Paris Hilton, “That’s hot.”