That 30-Something Chick with Braces

There are many things I never wanted to be. I never wanted to be that stereotypical suburb dweller with a perfect husband, two kids and a dog; instead I turned out to be that a-stereotypical suburb dweller with a nicely imperfect husband, one kid and a dog. I never wanted to be a housewife, so I went back to work when Rachael was 18 months to avoid losing my mind. I never wanted to be just that normal, average person, and now I realize there is nothing normal about me whatsoever. Most of all, I never wanted to be one of those 30-something chicks with braces.

I managed to get away with this up until last Tuesday when I found myself lying down in a padded chair staring up at the grated light fixture while an orthodontist in funny glasses affixed metal brackets to each one of my pearly white teeth. Four days later, I am counting the days until these damn things come off. Right now, I’ve got 11 months and 26 days left, and it’s going to be one long year.

My teeth have never been an issue, because my top teeth, the ones that you see when I smile, were straight. It was the bottom row that was crowded and unsightly. I managed to deal with it for most of my life, and then three years ago I had my wisdom teeth pulled. Most people have their wisdom teeth pulled in their late teens/early 20s, but I was a chicken shit, and had heard too many stories about the tremendous amount of pain. I finally braved up and had them done after giving birth to Rachael, because compared to labor pains, nothing, and I mean nothing, could ever come close to that pain.

I thought the loss of four teeth in the back of my mouth would free up some extra space. I believed my lower teeth would become less crowded, because now there was room to spread out. Unfortunately, the opposite happened, and the crowding became worse. Eventually, I began to experience jaw pain and would routinely end up biting the crap out of my lower lip compliments of my left protruding canine tooth. The dentist gave the verdict: the problem would only get worse unless orthodontics were applied.

It took me a couple of years to get this done, and now I have a very sore mouth that will probably set off the metal detector the next time I attempt airport security. The first day of my brace-wearing life I tried to find a decent smile. My old smile with the toothy grin exposed a row of metal brackets, so I attempted to resort to something close-lipped, however, concealing that much metal is no easy task. I finally had to say “fuck it” and just go with the full metal jacket grin, because frankly, when I try to smile with my mouth shut and conceal the braces, my lips are stretched so thin that I look like a frog.

The volume of my complaining could only be dwarfed by one sound: the growl of my stomach from surviving on a 95% liquid diet. In the morning, it’s steel-cut oatmeal that I barely have to chew, in the afternoon, its soup, and in the evening, it’s usually more soup. I have attempted to chew a few things, but due to the placement of one pesky bracket that meets one of my top teeth the wrong way, I have yet to master a jaw-grinding move that won’t have me yearning for a morphine drip.

The good news is that I’ve dropped five pounds. Snacking has gone by the wayside, because you have to do some intense rinsing and brushing after you eat, even if it’s just a bite of something. I have found myself looking at food and thinking it just isn’t worth the effort, which is something I have never done in my life. Everyone keeps telling me that I will get back to normal eating habits soon, but I don’t mind sticking with these for at least a few more pounds.

My braces have also thrilled my toddler tremendously. I was wondering how she’d react the first time I did the full metal jacket grin, and hoped I wouldn’t scare her. Instead she just looked, laughed, and yelled, “Mommy, you teeth are pwetty!” Then after doing a bit of poking around, she said wanted some for her teeth. I don’t have the heart to tell her that with her genetics, she has a darned good chance of ending up in the same chair just a mere four or five years from now.

Although I never wanted to be the woman with a grin full of metal, I am, and for the next 10-14 months, I will have to deal with mouth pain, tooth-shifting, figuring out how to get the dental wax properly on the troublesome brackets, all of the yummy food I can’t eat, gallons of soup and over-cooked pasta, brushing, rinsing, and more brushing and rinsing, and an occasional look from a younger woman as she’s thinking, Man, I’m glad I’m not that 30-something chick with braces.