The One About The Orthodontist

Nice Bossman from Heaven told me to take the day off today when I told him I’d be late due to an orthodontist appointment. Really, it wasn’t that I was just gonna be late, but that I’d miss two thirds of the day since I insist on seeing an orthodontist located two hours away. It’s all logical and easy in my head when I reason out that I had an awful orthodontist when I was younger who left me with an increasingly noticeable snaggle tooth despite being paid thousands of dollars and having total control over my teeth for 3 years. When I found a great doctor last year and then moved down to C-ville soon thereafter it seemed worth it to make the trek every 2 months or so. But that was when it was every two months or so. In the past 4 months he must’ve had me up there 10 times. At first I was dealing with the the drive and the ridicule I receive from friends and co-workers over my apparent dependence on this mystery man, but today I almost had it.

I arrived at his office clean, but still obviously disheveled. Some mornings I wake up and all I’ve gotta do is throw my hair on top of my head and I’m immediately convinced I’ve never looked better. Other mornings, despite 8+ hours of sleep and meticulous make-up application, my face looks bloated, tired, and old, and kinda like someone hit me with a board the night before. Today was one of the latter days.

I knew my agenda for the morning involved my appointment, the drive down to Charlottesville, and a workout, so while I made the effort to shower, I figured I could get away with a bordering-on-slutty tank top I wouldn’t have normally worn were it not for the stifling heat and my lack of self respect. Of course, I get there and am promptly informed by the assistant that today will be picture day for me. So I do my best to arrange my bra straps just so in hopes that they will somehow miraculously not peek out from the shirt when my picture is taken—a picture which is destined to be displayed on the waiting room wall, with all the rest of them, and that I am fairly sure is certain to make me look strung out and/or entirely destitute.

Following my photo shoot I casually mentioned to the good Doctor that I had in fact managed to break my second retainer—a point I’d neglected to disclose 2 weeks ago when it happened because it’s not really totally broken per se, and also cause that piece of plastic crap costs $150 to replace.

“Oh how did that happen? Are you soaking it in really hot or cold water or brushing it too hard?” the assistant asked.

I decided against letting her know how disgusting I actually am and rather than admit that I broke it while shoving it in to my pocket, likely in a flurry of action when something chocolate was placed in front of my face, I told her it broke while I was taking it out. Lucky for me no ever asked how I broke the first one—it was death by pocket for that one too.

A short muffled conference between doctor and assistant ensued and next thing I know I’m advised that I’ll be getting a new retainer. An old-school metal and wire one, much more visible than the clear plastic I had before, but much more durable.

“It’ll be touch to break this guy,” he assures me, “unless you do something like step on it.” Little does he know how likely this is.

I left the office defeated—I’d been immortalized for their wall at my worst and had subsequently revealed myself to the staff as completely incapable of handling the care of a piece of plastic, a metaphor I somehow imagine they extended to my life and my inability to say, run it. But I can’t stay mad at the Doctor. I know my teeth are gonna be straight after this and I’ll never have to suffer the indignity of a snaggle tooth comment again. So I’ll be back to get the new retainer. I won’t like it, but I’ll be back—a two hour drive in two weeks at that.