Overbite

Shakespeare penned the eyes as windows to the soul. Today, thanks to COVID masks, the metaphor lands hard, as the eyes are basically the only avenue for expression.    

Social interactions are fucking awkward. Even in the company of close friends, I grind forever to find the right gear. And with strangers, that’s a way more complicated beast. 

By now maybe you’ve tried smiling with your eyes?  

I prefer smiling with my eyes with or without COVID in the picture. My teeth are a goddamn nightmare so I like them incognito. I have a front gap tooth due to bone decay. One tooth’s gum has receded so far, that if I smile too large, I traumatize people. In their eyes, I see the instance they glimpse that rotten soft tissue around the fencepost of grey bone matter. Their expressions feign sympathy and disgust. To pour it on, most of the molars are crowns or have cracked silver fillings, which means I can’t open up wide when laughing hard lest these eyesores reveal themselves.  

The shame of it: my full smile is actually warm and contagious, foiled in my older age by bad teeth. All is not lost though because my eyes actually pull it off.

If you can’t smile with your eyes, maybe just nod and close your eyes. Don’t wink. I did that to some lady at Whole Foods last week and it didn’t go over well. Winking should get a break on the creepiness scale during COVID, but I get it.

In any case, your commitment to that mask life doesn’t mean you can neglect your choppers forever. You will pay. I’m learning that lesson the hard way. 

It began with the best fucking intentions. A handful of gummy vitamins. The high fiber dosage of 6 is not for the faint of jaw. As I was about to swallow, something felt off. That was my new crown attempting to stowaway in the wad to my stomach.

Lovely. 

This was 6 months ago when dental visits were not de rigeur. Reclined indoors for long stretches, mouth agape, strangers hovering - that’s no place to be avoiding a plague, so I decided to live with it.   

As many weeks passed, the slow, anxious burn of dissonance marinated in me. Romantically, I convinced myself that losing a tooth to a global pandemic could make good fodder, the loss would be a battle scar to regale and laugh about on the other side of this crisis - a less than tragic reminder of what went down. It was a back molar in any case, so nothing aesthetically alarming. 

Eventually, thanks to so much nocturnal grinding, several teeth began to scream when dashed with shots of hot or cold. No longer could I guide food to “safe” corners of my mouth to chew without sparking pain. The gig was up.

In the dark depths of a self loathing bender, the last thing you want is a large flat screen view of your garbage mouth. It does absolutely nothing good for your outlook. That horrifying image stared at me over the shoulder of the dentist as he began to scratch the surface of the many issues in front of me, caveated with ballpark price tags - a transparency I appreciated even as it bloated me with dread.

The litany was too much to process. It had been a particularly bad week for me mentally and emotionally. Landing in this chair only packed those wounds with salt.

I’d like to leave now.

He and the hygienist exchanged glances.

We’re finished for today, right?

Deciphering my vibe, he clicked off the screen with a remote and nodded to the hygienist. She read the cue and left the exam room.

In the car, I rested my head on the steering wheel and let the tears fall into my lap as I recycled the hefty ask he dropped before I departed.

Do you want to save your teeth?

Who says no to a question like that?

I didn’t decline, but I sidestepped any huge commitments. We left it that I’d do a scaling treatment, in two parts, to clear the deck for a better read. I’m no stranger to that style of deep cleaning, and the pain it packs, so I agreed to get it done and return for a consult after.

Today I received a text message confirming an appointment for January 7. This will be the moment of truth when they unveil a plan to rescue the ruins of my mouth.

As my thumb hovers above the confirmation link on the screen, my mind goes to Shakespeare’s take on the eyes and I wonder if he had any quips on the mouth stashed in some metaphor junk drawer.

If the eyes are windows to the soul, In my case, the mouth is a cellar doorway into the musty crawlspace of dysfunction and despair and I’m about to deep dive in.

My thumb reconsiders and lands on the ‘reschedule’ link.

Cup, Half Empty

Soccer season is about to wrap up for my 15 year old son. Laced with all of the standard plague precautions you might expect - masks, temperature checks, etc - the whole experience has been tinted with a brackish shade of grey. Practices and games felt like sleepwalks through mud. That’s not to say the kids don’t hustle out there because they do, but like everything else these days, a pulse of futility beats just beneath the surface and depletes the thrill that has trademarked past seasons. The sense of urgency that once charged these contests drifts awry like some newborn ghost.

Last weekend his team was absolutely throttled. I lost the official count but it had to be a 10 goal deficit by the final whistle. Neither team showed an ounce of emotion throughout the match. I tried for a moment to feign encouragement with a loud cheer and regretted it immediately when a series of dead eyes turned from their phones to glare at me. I assumed their mouths were gaping beneath their masks. I kept my own shut the rest of the day.

At some point my son got blasted in the junk by a line drive. Play stopped, players kneeled and coaches gathered around the gasping dude.

The moment triggered empathy pains and transported me back to one of my first acts of imposter syndrome. 

Sophomore year, I tried out for my Jesuit high school’s B soccer team. Growing up lower middle class in the inner city, I didn’t have the club team soccer experience that seemed to be a childhood staple for my suburb dwelling peers. My skills simply didn’t stand up to theirs, so I put my name in the hat for goalkeeper, figuring I could get by on basic athleticism. At first it looked hopeful when the prior year’s backup keeper, a kid tragically named Whitehead, didn’t show up. 

The coach was a hard ass history teacher named Mr. McCarthy. My hand still cramps at the thought of his furious, high octane lectures. I knew from his classroom vibe and generosity with doling out demerits to never cross him, so I took his shin guards and cup requirement to heart. I didn’t want to give him clearance to cut me on some half-assed technicality.

In the parking lot of the sporting good store, my mom gave me a few bills and waited outside in the car. Quickly I realized I didn’t have enough money for both. It was a small miracle that I convinced her to buy me gear in the first place, given that a day rarely passed without her rambling about how broke we were. The choice required no deliberation at all - shin guards were the obvious choice based on their visibility alone.

My stomach was a mosh pit of nerves the first day of tryouts, but Whitehead’s absence lightened the load. No one else pursued the backup keeper job, so barring some major fuck up, it was mine. It would be the first of many ‘fake it til you make it’ gambits in my high school career. Given the basic objective of the position - to defend the goal - I managed to rely on instincts and reflexes to skate through the drills and scrimmage with ease.

Day two exposed some cracks in my game. First, McCarthy called me out on aimlessly punting the ball, giving away possessions instead of feeding it to teammates for an organized attack. Then he went berserk when I twice failed to heed his demand that I switch the field. The directive should have been obvious - send the ball to the other side of the pitch - but my lack of depth in the game’s nuances telegraphed that either I didn’t understand or was uncoachable. Neither possibility looked great. Still, no Whitehead gave me a path forward. 

On the third and final tryout, of course he showed up. Returning late from an extended August vacation (something I could not relate to at all), Whitehead romped onto the scene with confidence and a brilliant tan. An alternate keeper for the previous year’s C team, he was a known quantity. My confidence receded. 

The bookend scrimmage was a barn burner, knotted at 1-1 down the stretch. Players trash talked and bodied each other as the clock ticked the last minutes away. No one wanted to lose the final match of tryouts. Aside from pride on the line, the losing squad would have to run wind sprints in the African summer heat of St. Louis. I wished silently for the action to stay away from me. After all, I’d played well, only allowing a goal on a PK, which is respectable. Whitehead’s play seemed rusty and unremarkable, which emboldened me. 

Then, sure as hell, a wing forward broke down the sideline and angled toward the goal. I unwisely vacated the box to contest and got juked to the ground. Momentarily a defender assisted by racing back in time to harass him. I lumbered back to the goal, figuring I had recovered, when he toe kicked a missile straight to my crotch. As my sight went dark, I heard cheers from the opposition and wanted to disappear.

In the dirt I gasped for air. Soon McCarthy’s shadow mercifully shrouded me from the sun and my vision cleared. The look on his face betrayed no emotion. 

You wearing a cup, son?

I could muster no words - just a shake of my head. 

Did you know that’s one of the rules for tryouts?

Other players had huddled around. I swallowed the truth - that I could not afford a cup - and only nodded.

Ok then, walk it off. 

During wind sprints I avoided eye contact with my soon-to-be-ex teammates but could feel the burn of their pissed off stares. Sore crotch be damned, I blew it. 

McCarthy wasted no time posting the final roster to the door of the athletic department offices for all to see. Like Luther’s Ninety-five Theses, the document glowered at the far end of the hallway, poised to spark joy for some and ruin others. The suspense that clinched my jaw dispersed when a friend approached and told me I didn’t make it, confirming what I already knew - I didn’t belong.

Applause brought me back to the real and pressing matter of my son. He waved to the small crowd as he labored to the sidelines with his coach. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late to add my own percussion.

On the 90 minute ride back I kept to myself how thrilled I was to kill an entire Sunday on an uninspired loss and opted for bonding over busted balls. I shared my own experience and absorbed his cackling laughter. Suddenly, over 30 years later, my bad acting and battered junk was all worth it.

Looking back, I can’t wallow in the frustration of being cut. I knew it was a long shot, considering my lack of experience. You learn from rejection, and this one birthed a chip on my shoulder that would motivate me to make some smart and many regretful decisions moving forward.

Return to Sender

The first one lands discreetly in an avalanche of mail on the foyer rug. I weed it out from the rest and leave it on the table unopened. 

Later, that afternoon when we cross paths in the break room (our kitchen), I mention it to my wife. 

Who’s it from? 

I didn’t look.

You’re in denial?

Kind of. 

Well get to it this weekend.

With that she presses the brew button on the coffeemaker and the soulless drone punctuates our dialog.

That’s what we said last week, that we would get around to it. Then a boozy Friday night laid waste to our productive weekend ambitions and we rain checked all chores on the family Trello board. So it goes.

The card portrays all the usual suspects. Husband, wife, two kids - all adorned in farmers market chic attire. The outfits suggest that minimal effort went into their selection. (Narrator: The outfits were planned for weeks.) A well groomed dog looks stoically, stubbornly away from the camera. Blazing fall foliage backdrops it all.  

Happy Holidays from our family to yours!

This is a Christian family. I know they do Christmas. They played it safe this year. Good call, I guess. The world is on eggshells anyway. (And really, after the last four years, to hell with Christians.)  

Slowly my smile flattens and yields to a grimace. I look closer at the parental mugs and wonder which took the wheel on the season's greetings this year. My money is on her. She can be a ballbuster. He rarely does anything right. He gave up on pushing back years ago. It has a lot to do with his being a degenerate womanizer before he met her. She’s punishing him and he believes he deserves it. That’s their formula. He has vented as much to me countless times on many barstools. I hope this year has brought them balance. For a closer look at his eyes I attempt to stretch the photo with my thumb and forefinger. When it doesn’t work, I sigh and remind myself to start that goddamned digital diet soon. 

I set it aside and put my head in my hands, pressing hard on my eyes to uncork a burst of blurred stars under the lids. It takes very little to get me flustered, not just in 2020. Even something so well-intentioned as a holiday card can open a spiral of doubt and guilt - the first card of the season especially. 

It’s been a hard fucking year. Understatement, I know. Big picture, my family is wildly fortunate. We survived with our physical health intact. Everyone seems to be mentally fit as well. Well, not me. I’m a slight mess but do a serviceable job containing it.

Truth is, in our nearly 20 years doing it, I can’t recall the production bringing me joy. It mostly felt like a chore, requisite posturing, a box to be checked, a projection of sanity at a time of year when I tend to be at full scale war with my demons. I wish it wasn’t so.

My best guess is that we won’t send cards this year. I’ll leave the door cracked for my wife to find last minute inspiration and enlist me, but my vote is to punt. I’m too tired to fake it. 

Zero judgment to those who remain dedicated to the tradition. I’m happy that friends and family can convey some normalcy. I’m envious, really.

None of this is to say art direction and copy won’t be scrutinized. They will. Sorry.

License to Stew

The idea for this blog, my 4th, was born of a running inside joke that dates back over a decade. In truth, it has mostly to do with a dysfunctional and self destructive habit I perpetuate daily. My wife and I joke about it to lend levity to what is actually a character flaw.

I am an early riser - the only in my family. This affords me hours alone before the world around me lurches into its regularly scheduled chaos. Inevitably, in my solitude, something bubbles beneath and rises to the surface where I agonize and wring my hands over it, sparking so much angst, adrenaline and pit sweat. The latter is dealt with by stuffing paper towels under my arms - the former requires a tug of war. For better or worse, the daily dilemma is focused - a singular subject rather than a firehose of stressors. Often it’s some nagging work drama, but lately the feed has been personal concerns - fading friendships, parenting failures, marriage curves, financial worry, identity crises, etc. Consistently these embers are not deeply dire, but that doesn’t stop me from dousing them with gasoline then standing way too close to the fire. In fact, on the surface these matters could be externally perceived as utterly insignificant, borderline petty.

Already, before this gathers a breath of steam, I’m experiencing waves of cognitive dissonance over the broader theme. It feels vaguely fucked to open with a caveat but I should highlight that a lot of what’s to come - rants and diatribes of the midlife crisis flavor - will be genuine but not blind to the larger crises plaguing our world right now. In the frightful fog of our current culture marked with racial injustice, economic depression and the destructive ripples of a global pandemic; self-awareness and perspective are critical and will be a constant undercurrent here.

All of that said, who can deny that smaller stuff still deserves some sweat, regardless of the big picture? I still have baggage that needs to be sorted, demons that need to be exorcised. I wish like hell that daunting, historical crises would erase those or at least suppress them.

I look forward to the day I can delete this post and fret with abandon. Maybe the world comes out of this stronger…or I unlock the labyrinth I’ve become.

In the meantime, I stew.