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.